Double Trouble
by A.L. Maddix
Summary: It's two times the crime when an art thief seems to be in two places at once, and Neal turns to an old friend for help in solving the case. Everyone plus OC.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Yaaaay first White Collar fic. This may be confusing at first but it will explain itself in time. I have a simple economy in fanfiction – reviews for answers. ;D I'll try to update at least once a week, although I may need pokes and prods to do so.**

Chapter 1: Partners

Neal could not stop fidgeting.

He and Peter had been waiting in the conference room for what felt like hours to the extremely impatient con man. He alternated between drumming his fingers on the tabletop to spinning his hat on a finger to playing with his hair. Peter had his back to Neal, looking out the window and over the city. His hands were on his hips and his mouth was pursed in suppressed annoyance.

Neal started drumming again.

"Will you cut that out?" Peter finally snapped, not turning around. Neal complied wordlessly, folding his hands in his lap and counting ceiling tiles as an alternate distraction.

They were both tense. Everyone had been lately. What had started out as a simple art thief had turned into a game of chicken with a very, very clever man. Or men. Neal had no idea.

Common knowledge amongst con artists was that having a partner increased the chances of betrayal but decreased the chances of getting caught – split the crimes, split the liability, double the tracks to follow. Most in the business were too proud to operate with a partner, but those who found reliable ones were well off indeed. Mozzie was proof of that.

Both men looked as Jones nearly broke down the door as he zoomed into the room, Lauren and Hughes hot on his heels. Peter was the first to speak.

"Anything on the surveillance footage?" he asked.

"You're not going to believe this," said Lauren as she and Jones laid out two files. Peter and Neal moved closer to see.

Each file had a still from a fuzzy surveillance feed. Jones pointed to the one on the left.

"This one is from a camera pointed north, just a few blocks west of Central Park. And this one," he said, pointing to the one on the right, "is from a southwest-facing camera a mile northwest of the other one. Notice anything weird?"

"It's the same guy," said Neal. "So what?"

"So," said Lauren, pulling out second copies of both photos and putting them on top. These ones had time stamps in the lower right hand corners.

"No way," said Peter.

"Taken within two seconds of each other," Lauren finished. "Either this guy's perfected the art of teleportation or there's something fishy going on."

"Could he have tampered with the time stamps?" asked Hughes, who looked puzzled. Jones shook his head.

"Body double?" suggested Neal.

"It's possible. We're trying to get more detail on the face. In the meantime, it looks like there's a new development."

Everyone within the sound of Lauren's voice looked closely at the photos. The fuzzy bunch of pixels were so far their only possible suspect – or suspects – in this mad tango.

"He can be in two places at once," Peter said, deflated. He looked at Neal. "Any thoughts?"

"Partnerships aren't all that common," he said, paraphrasing his earlier train of thought. "They're dangerous, but they can be used to throw law enforcement off the trail. Most con men are too proud to use them, though, which narrows our playing field somewhat."

"To whom?" Peter pressed.

"I'm working on it."

"Well, work fast," his partner replied. "There's a major art gallery opening a new display in a few days. We're already planning a sting, but if we have a name it'll be that much easier."

"Take me home and I'll get right on it."

Peter looked to Hughes, who nodded his permission for Neal to leave work and for Peter to escort him. As Lauren and Jones gathered up the files and photos, Neal, Peter, and Hughes exited the conference room.

"You'd better make good on this, Caffrey," Hughes said, prodding Neal in the chest as Peter went to his office to get his keys and coat. "This guy has stolen almost two million dollars in less than two weeks. We can't let him carry on like this. Who knows what it'll turn into."

"Understood," Neal replied earnestly as Peter rejoined them. He and Neal made their way down the steps, Hughes watching them as he stalked back to his own office.

In the elevator, Peter could not hold his tongue any longer.

"You're going to ask the short guy, aren't you?"

Neal nodded.

"Do I ever get to know his name?"

Neal shook his head. Peter sighed, and neither man spoke again until Peter stopped the car in front of June's residence.

"Good luck, Neal," Peter said as Neal got out of the car.

"Don't need luck, Peter," Neal said before shutting the car door and heading inside. He had already half-dialed Mozzie's number before Peter had driven away, shaking his head and clucking at the impudent con man.

Mozzie had come over as quickly has he could manage, which, in his case, took well over an hour. Neal was relaxing, no longer fidgeting now that he'd had some alone time.

He explained the case to Mozzie in as much detail as he could remember, going over everything that came to mind – he wished he'd had the sense to ask for a copy of the case file before he left. But he felt he'd hit the important points – not-so-standard art thief, two places at once, two million in two weeks, big sting operation, et cetera.

He had to pause for a drink of water when he finished his ramble.

"Anyone fitting that description pop into your head?" Neal asked, a ray of false hope as he sat back down with his glass in hand.

Mozzie bobbed his head from side to side uncertainly. "Well, partners do narrow the field down, but they widen it at the same time. I've heard that Mitchell Cameron, that painter from Maine, has been working with someone, but last word I got, he was in Mexico chasing a woman and her ten thousand dollar diamond bracelet. If someone does have a partner, they're not likely to advertise it, or spend time together."

"Like what old Firefingers used to say, right?"

"Excuse me?"

"Firefingers. Tory. The guy who always said 'work together, hide alone, lest you fall together.'"

"You actually remember his platitudes?"

"I held onto every platitudinous word, Moz."

Mozzie cocked an eyebrow.

"Then you'll also remember his tirade about the stench of cops?"

"The FBI are not cops," Neal retorted.

"Law enforcement, cops, same thing. Firefingers hated them. Probably still does."

Neal rolled his eyes. "Are you going to look into it or not?"

"Yes, I will look into it."

"Thank you."

There was a brief silence. Neal stared at Mozzie and listened to the sound of the city streets below.

"He who lingers gets caught by justice's long fingers," Neal sang, smirking.

"Will you stop quoting that crazy old bat?" Mozzie snapped.

Neal cackled as Mozzie bustled out of the dwelling and back into the underworld.

**A/N: Firefingers is an OC. And yes, he will pop up eventually. This was mostly just exposition. I hope you liked my lame beginning (I've always sucked at starting things!) and I hope that you'll leave me a nice review and keep reading. =D**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Part 2! Faster than I ever expected to get it done. Go me! I wrote this while distracted by the Cardinals-Packers game, so forgive me if it seems a little choppy. Also I am totally using the magic of non-linear storytelling to get this done. Bear with me! also, Go Cardinals! Also I use the word also a lot. ;D**

**Reviews for a starving high school senior/part-time college kid?**

Chapter 2: Sting Like A Bee

Mozzie reported back to Neal first thing the next morning.

Neal was lucky to have even been out of bed when he heard the knock on his door. He had just put on a clean pair of pants as he picked up his shirt, pulled it on over his shoulders, and started buttoning as he walked to the door.

"Found him already?" Neal asked, stepping back to let the shorter man inside.

"Not specifically, but I did find the only guy currently in the city who has the smarts to tamper with the surveillance feeds."

"Jones said that was impossible."

Mozzie gave him a glare that told him the reason why Jones thought it was impossible – the criminals hadn't done it before.

Inwardly, Neal smirked. Less than twelve hours ago, Mozzie was mocking him for quoting their buttons-up-the-back old mentor; and now he had given Neal a glare straight from Firefingers's textbook – if the man had ever been sane enough to write a cohesive textbook.

They sat down around the coffee table as Mozzie opened a folder and turned it for Neal to see. Neal pulled it closer to him, his brow furrowing in study.

"Martirio Salazar, a Spanish national who once worked for the city before he got into the black market of the art trade. Guess what he used to do for the city?"

"I'm betting something to do with the surveillance cameras."

Mozzie nodded. "He did maintenance work. If a camera broke, he took it down and fixed it. If the recording machinery malfunctioned, he was called in to repair it. He knows the system intimately."

Neal scanned the paperwork, which he now recognized as Salazar's city employee file. It was three years out of date, but leaving it in existence at all was a big mistake on his part. Neal couldn't suppress the second-long flashback to Firefingers flogging the values of burning your trail – part of what gave him his infamous moniker.

"Find any photographs of him?"

"Just this one," Mozzie replied, taking the document out of his coat pocket. He handed it to Neal, who shook his head. Martirio Salazar was about a hundred pounds overweight, and although the photograph didn't clearly show his face, the man in the surveillance footage was beanpole thin and obviously not Salazar.

"It's not the same guy as the footage," Neal said. "He's too fat. The guy we're looking for is skinnier than I am."

"Maybe, but we _were_ thinking partnership. What if Salazar took care of the cameras while the other guy did the dirty work?"

Neal nodded, thoughtful.

"It's a possibility. How can I coax him out of hiding?"

"He may know city surveillance systems intimately, but Salazar is stupid. He'll go after anything purported to be valuable. He's interested in money, not art."

"Is he fencing anything at the moment?"

"No, but he did get a very nice gift this morning from a secret admirer," Mozzie said, using a tone of voice that told Neal the "secret admirer" was Mozzie acting in anticipation of Neal's course of action.

"Perfect. Moz, I don't do enough to merit this from you," Neal said with a smile. "As soon as it hits the market, tell me, and I'll get the FBI to set up a standard bait-and-switch manoeuvre."

"On it, and I'm keeping tabs on what you owe me," Mozzie said as Neal stood up to finish getting dressed.

xxx

Neal brought the file to Peter and reiterated to the entire gang what Mozzie had said to him. Peter, appropriately, was wary.

"Are you sure that this is the right guy?"

"He's the best available option. A shaky lead is better than no lead at all, right?"

"Will he go for it?" asked Lauren.

"Standard art thief, shallow guy who goes for anything loud without really understanding it. If you tell him it's valuable, he wants it. I wouldn't put it past someone much smarter to be manipulating his skills with a promise of something shiny and expensive. Salazar is a Spaniard – if we get him, we can offer immunity in exchange for a name. He'd go for it."

All of the agents looked to Hughes, whose hands were on his hips, a frown creasing his already deeply lined face.

"Alright," Hughes said, much to the relief of everyone involved. "Use as much bait money as you need. This guy can't do much more damage than he's already done."

He looked pointedly to Peter.

"I'm trusting you with this, Burke. Do whatever you think needs to be done. I'm authorizing you for whatever you need. Get this guy, and get him fast."

Peter nodded as Hughes exited the room. He looked at Neal.

"When do we make our move?"

"We need to wait until the fake painting hits the market. If we move now, it'll be a little obvious that it's a set-up. Once it hits, we need to wait about a day – or twelve hours at the very least – so that we don't look too eager to snap it up. There's nothing to do now but wait."

Neal sat back, folding his hands across his lap and giving Peter his best innocent-boy look. He spun the chair a few degrees back and forth, watching without blinking. They locked eyes for a moment.

"You heard the man," Peter announced. "Busy yourselves with something else while we're waiting."

No one moved. Neal leaned forward and spoke softly.

"I think that was secret FBI code for 'shoo,'" he said sincerely.

Jones and Lauren scattered. Peter kept his eyes locked on Neal.

"I don't want to know how you managed al this overnight, but at the same time, I'm fascinated," he said.

"I am a paradox just by existing," Neal responded with a cheeky grin. Peter gave him a rueful smile before leaving the room himself.

xxx

Salazar was eager to put the painting up for sale as soon as possible. The note that had been attached to the canvas said the painting was worth at least a million dollars – something about being the last painting of a prolific artist before her sudden and tragic death. She did beautiful work inspired by the circle of life, but Salazar couldn't care less about the brilliant earthy tones and careful, elegant brush strokes.

He didn't understand art. He understood money.

"How soon can we sell?" were the first words out of his mouth, spoken in his heavily accented broken English.

His partner immediately saw that it was a forgery, but he got forty percent of Salazar's money, so he was happy to shut his trap and sell it. He was certain that there was Some Idiot who wouldn't know the difference between the Mona Lisa and a coffee stain that vaguely resembled a potential child of Mona Lisa and Jesus. Besides, maybe this would be his chance to do what he'd been planning for quite some time – and he'd get the bonus of something for nothing without as much mess as doing it with a real painting.

So he gave the stock answer of the wait-a-day rule so that he could scope out some potential buyers, figure out who was in town and who had money. Salazar beamed over a tall glass of champagne, sitting surrounded by beautiful women in his upscale New York crime den.

"I want two million," he said through the liquor.

His partner nodded and fled. The overweight Spaniard exuded a foul odour that no one could stand for very long without being paid handsomely for it – which, of course, he was.

Neal was on the man like glue.

xxx

The White Collar Crime Unit was abuzz with activity the following day. The proceedings were standard and uneventful – Mozzie acted as Neal's representative and arranged a time and place for a Mr. Tory Shepherd to meet with Mr. Salazar and his representatives to negotiate the terms of the purchase. Salazar priced the canvas at two million – which secretly made Mozzie want to do cartwheels – and Mozzie said that Mr. Shepherd would be willing to negotiate a fair price.

A few pleasantries, a superhuman effort in resisting the urge to do a dance of joy, and the deed was done.

Lauren had bullied Neal into wearing an overly-long pair of trousers that, if properly folded inward, hid his tracking anklet, even if he were to sit and draw up the fabric unintentionally. He whined about the fact that they and the matching shirt and jacket were designer knock-offs, but Lauren gave him a death glare and he silenced.

"We're spending enough money on you as is without having to buy a new one of these things every time we put you up to something like this," she scolded.

Neal had to physically bite his lip to keep his complaints at bay.

Peter poked his head into Hughes's office. Even though the agent had all the authorizations he needed, he felt more comfortable keeping his boss informed.

"We've got the set-up. We're taking--"

Hughes held up his hand, not looking up from his work.

"Don't want to know," he said, placing emphasis on every word.

Peter paused, then backed out of the room. Jones wrapped up the last coordinating phone call, and Lauren finished the intricate fold on Neal's pant leg.

"Ready?" Peter said to his motley little troupe of crime fighters.

Neal spun his hat and put it on his head.

"Lock and load, amigo," he said with a smile.

xxx

Neal blinked. Interestingly, it was the most physical reaction out of anyone.

They were all coated in a thick layer of dust, hunched in varying degrees of protective crouches. The explosives hadn't been enough to cause any real damage to the building or the people inside, but it had created enough smoke and mirrors for Salazar's partner to get away with the suitcase full of money.

Salazar himself, on the other hand, had a pair of agents sitting on top of him as a third cuffed the dazed and confused man.

The painting – and, more importantly, a million dollars – were gone.

"Well, that was interesting," Neal said.

"What... just happened?" said Peter.

"The sting got stung," Neal replied, trying to sound casual despite the bad grammar. He looked to Salazar.

"But we did get a consolation prize."

The agents hauled Salazar to his feet. With the change in orientation, the massive, moronic thief seemed to find his voice.

"Nicholas Kerrington!" he screamed. "_Su nombre es_ Nicholas Kerrington!* He take money! He betray me!"

"Mouth like a steel trap, he does not have," intoned Neal as Salazar was hauled away. Peter flicked Neal's shoulder and grabbed his radio.

"Did we catch anyone on the way out?" he barked, ignoring protocol.

The radio crackled a negative response. Peter resisted the urge to curse and instead turned to Neal and prodded him in the chest. Neal swallowed his annoyance at this.

"Nicholas Kerrington. Find him, use the short guy, whatever. This guy now has a million dollars of FBI money and I want his head on a stick. You do your thing, we'll do ours. Got it?"

Neal saluted. Peter narrowed his eyes, but let it go. Neal distanced himself from the gaggle of still slightly confused FBI agents, dusting himself off somewhat and reaching for his phone.

"Moz, you're not going to believe this," he said, shaking his head to clear his hair of dust.

**A/N: Firefingers will show up in the next two chapters or so, k? Calm down. I beg for patience in explaining what the heck is going on in the hope that this confusing strategy will keep you coming back for more. Also those of you who guessed what the twist is... you're half right. I've got what I think is a clever twist-upon-twist that I hope you'll enjoy.**

**Reviews are the fuel of my fire. ;)**

*****_**Su nombre es**_** = his name is**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Because I have nothing better to do whilst sitting in my T.A. hour waiting for the coffee to finish brewing. Good times! Thank you all for the reviews and continued support! Reading what you have to say is awesome. I look forward to it and check obsessively. I need a hobby. :) I am also largely entertained by Google Ads putting White Collar ads on the fanfiction page. Kudos!**

Chapter 3: Smoke and Mirrors

"He blew the place up?" Mozzie half-laughed.

"No, Salazar didn't, his partner did," Neal said, although he couldn't suppress his own smile. "I'm guessing that, from the looks of it, Salazar just got double-crossed. The FBI are taking him in for interrogation."

"How did he know this was a sting operation?"

"I dunno. Maybe he was planning to do this no matter who showed up. The fact that the FBI were the buyers just happened to be a coincidence."

"Maybe. I assume you want me to find the partner?"

"Am I really that predictable?"

"Yes."

Neal narrowed his eyes in a glare, even though Mozzie wouldn't be able to see him doing so over the phone.

"Alright, I'm predictable, but you are very good at what you do. Nicholas Kerrington. Know anything about him?"

"Not off the top of my head, but I'll do some digging and see what comes up. You'll let me know if Salazar spills anything that might help me?"

"_Si, señor,_" Neal said teasingly.

"Shut up."

There was a brief pause.

"So the FBI really brought a case of a million dollars and didn't think to booby trap it in some way?"

"I was thinking the same thing. Doesn't seem like the smartest idea, and I have a hard time believing they could be that stupid."

"There's no way they'd trust you around one million unprotected dollars."

"Thanks, Moz."

"Oh, lighten up. I'll get to work on finding this Kerrington guy. You go do things for The Man."

"Are you planning on--"

The line went dead.

"Letting that go," Neal finished, removing his phone from his ear.

xxx

"Nicholas Kerrington," Salazar sputtered, handcuffed in the White Collar Crime Unit conference room and sweating despite the chilly air temperature.

"Who is he?" Peter asked, leaning over the other side of the table, supporting himself on his knuckles. He had taken his jacket off and his shoulder holster was showing, adding an extra bit of intimidation to the proceedings.

"He is thief," Salazar said. "He stole your money. Stole my pretty _pinturas._ Destroyed my warehouse."

"Right. We want to find him and bring him to justice. If you help us, it'll be better for you. So tell me – where can I find Kerrington?"

"Don't know. He probably flee. Don't know where he has gone."

"No ideas at all?"

"He probably stay in city. _Muchas pinturas aqui._ He want some of them. To steal. Sell for high price. He is very clever."

"What's your relationship with him?"

"He was friend," Salazar said, eyes narrowing. "He promised me money. Said he would get money if I helped him. Wanted my skills."

"How did he find you?"

"_No se, señor._"

Peter pulled out a chair and sat down, leaning forward and folding his hands on the tabletop.

"What was the plan – from your end – for today? Walk me through what was supposed to happen."

"_Pintura_ was delivered to me yesterday," Salazar said, struggling with the English. "Said it worth lots of money. I ask Kerrington, how soon can we sell? He said wait a day. I said I want two million. He said he do his best. Next day, says Señor Tory Shepherd interested in _la pintura._ Negotiations arranged. I was very happy. Then, Kerrington betray me. Steal _pintura._ Steal your money. Don't know where he got explosives or when he set them up."

"Are you telling me the truth?"

Salazar nodded.

"_Es la verdad, Señor _Burke."

Peter felt, in his gut, that he could trust Salazar's responses. He signaled to Jones, who was waiting outside, that he had finished with the Spaniard.

"We're going to keep you in custody for the time being. I'm not going to forget your cooperation. We'll catch Kerrington and see what we can do with you.

"_Lo que sea,"_ he said as Jones cuffed him. "You police types are all the same."

He was trying to be calm and collected, but Peter saw suppressed despair and panic in his eyes. Peter returned to his office, paged Lauren, and logged in to his computer. Moments later, when Lauren poked her head into the office, he looked up.

"Nicholas Kerrington. Find anything and everything we have on him and get it to the conference rom. Jones'll help you when he's done with Salazar. Let me know when you're finished and I'll call Caffrey."

Lauren nodded and left to get started on her task. Peter stared at his dust-covered reflection in the glass walls of his office. He had gone home to change and inform El that he was safe. He hadn't had time for a shower, so his hair was looking a little prematurely grey, although he had washed his face of the gunk. He couldn't wait to go home and take a long, hot shower.

He prayed that Neal would have better luck than he did.

xxx

Neal was enjoying the benefits of a hot shower, digging his fingernails into his scalp to be sure that he got all the dust out.

He looked at the tips of his fingers, studying the swirling ridges that biologically identified him as Neal Caffrey. Fingerprints were the bane of any criminal's existence, white collar or not. Leave a few prints at a scene and your ass was grass.

He thought of Firefingers, the only man he'd ever known to overcome that particular setback. Sure, the man was certifiably insane, but he knew what he was doing, and paranoid schizophrenia only made him better at it.

Neal leaned his head against the shower wall. _Think like Firefingers._ He constantly said this in his mind – even before he had started working for the FBI – and for the most part, it had worked.

Neal's downfall, in comparison, was that he was perfectly sane and thus not compulsed to take extreme measures to cover his tracks. His guard wasn't always up, either.

He smiled to himself. His old mentor would be ashamed. Or whack him on the back of the head and tell him he had too much trust. It depended on the day.

Firefingers had always disapproved of Neal using his real name in any case. Neal had known his mentor for years but knew only his first name. He had too many aliases to count.

Neal looked at his fingers again.

Had Kerrington been wearing gloves?

Neal struggled to remember. They had shaken hands at the start of the meeting. He remembered feeling skin. No, he hadn't been wearing gloves. Had he touched anything besides Neal's hand?

There had been a friendly pat on the shoulder, but any prints left behind would have been obliterated by the dust.

Neal shut the water off and wrapped a towel around his waist. He sat on the edge of the bathtub, staring at his feet and thinking.

A surge of adrenaline hit him like a bull elephant. His head snapped up and he stared wide-eyed at his reflection in the foggy mirror.

The phone.

Salazar had gotten a phone call. Kerrington had answered it.

The FBI probably had confiscated it upon Salazar's arrest.

Neal bolted out of the bathroom to his own phone, misdialing Peter's number twice in his haste. He held his breath as it rang. Once, twice –

"Agent Burke."

"Peter," Neal blurted. "Salazar's mobile phone."

"What?"

"His phone. Kerrington answered a call on it and then Salazar put it back in his pocket. Do you guys have it?"

Peter went from baffled to business in no time flat.

"Yes, downstairs. I'm on it. You get yourself in as fast as possible. We've got a boatload of paperwork on Kerrington."

"Right," Neal said, hanging up the phone and tearing through the suite in a rush to get dressed. It took him three tries to get his shoes on the right feet and he realized halfway to the office that he had forgotten to remove the protective waterproof wrap from his tracking anklet.

He disregarded it as he power-walked through the streets. He called Mozzie.

"Anything on Kerrington?" he said, ignoring pleasantries.

"Hello to you too, Neal. Nothing so far. Still on the hunt. This one's a slippery fish."

Neal didn't wait for anything else Mozzie had to say.

xxx

"Nothing?" Neal said in despair, visibly deflating.

"No prints on the phone other than Salazar's. Kerrington must've wiped it off," said Jones.

Neal hung his head. He had secretly been a little proud that he'd gotten the fingerprint idea without Mozzie's help, but a dead end was no source for pride.

"And all of our information is useless," said Lauren in exasperation, tossing aside yet another file with Kerrington's name on it. "I've got a feeling that Nicholas Kerrington isn't even his real name. if it is, he's a barber-slash-CEO-slash-museum-owner-slash-high-school-teacher from Texas, New York, California, and New Jersey."

Peter massaged his temples with one hand, his eyes squinted shut.

"Forget two places at once, we're chasing smoke and mirrors."

Peter looked at Neal.

"Any ideas? Elusiveness is your specialty. What's Kerrington – if that's his name at all – up to?"

Everyone looked at Neal, who looked up. He met all of their eyes individually, coming to rest on Peter last of all.

"Even I'm not this good at getting away," he said in defeat.

The disappointment was almost tangible. They had gone from setting up a routine sting operation to completely lost and completely out of options.

There was nothing left to do but go home.

xxx

Peter sat back in his chair, feeling very full and very warm after practically licking his dinner plate clean. He sighed a happy sigh and smiled at his incandescent wife.

"The only thing I love more than food is the woman who is kind enough to cook it for me," he said, teasing.

Elizabeth smiled back at him, picking up both plates and pecking him on the lips as she walked to the kitchen. She deposited the dishes in the sink – she'd clean them after Peter went to bed so that she could spend more time with him – and returned to the dining room, putting her arms around him from behind where he sat.

"And I love the man who enjoys my food. I know you had a rough day."

"That's what happens when you lose twenty grand of your boss's money to a guy that you can't find."

"I thought it was a million."

"The rest were counterfeit. The twenty grand was just to make it look convincing."

"I was wondering why Hughes would be okay with having Neal close to that much money."

Peter chuckled, affectionately rubbing Elizabeth's forearms.

"Hughes didn't want any part in it. But yeah, few people trust Neal around any amount of money."

"Are you part of that few?" she asked teasingly.

"I'm in the extreme few that know that a million is a small chunk of change in his world."

It was Elizabeth's turn to laugh. She kissed her husband's cheek and let go of him.

"Come on, let's not talk about work. Work is at the office. I'm here. Let's watch some television and unwind a little."

"Words to live by," Peter said, happily following her to the living room.

xxx

Neal was alone in the dark, staring at the glowing screen of his cell phone, trying to rationalize his next move.

It was desperate and a last-ditch effort, but if it worked, it would solve everyone's problems faster than sitting around could. He wasn't sure how to find the man or even if he was still alive, but it was the last option he could think of. The situation was desperate. Hughes hadn't said it to his face, but Neal knew he was risking going back to prison if he did nothing at all. Hail-Mary passes were better than nothing.

He picked up his phone, dialed Information, and gave the operator the name of a nightclub and asked for its address and phone number. He hung his head when he realized the address was well outside his two-mile radius. The stupid place was always changing location, and now it was too far away.

He'd need Peter for this, as much as he'd prefer to do it alone.

He hung up on the pleasant hotline operator and, for the he-didn't-know-what time that day, dialed Peter's number. He knew he was probably interrupting time with Elizabeth, but he'd make it up to her. Somehow.

Predictably, Peter was grumpy at the disturbance.

"This had better be good, Caffrey."

Neal took a deep breath.

"I have an idea on how to catch Kerrington."

"What?"

There was a brief pause.

"Ever hear of a man called Firefingers?"

**A/N: Things are getting interesting! I love you for reading. Seriously. It's turned me into quite the crack addict for reviews.**

**Also, clever readers will be able to figure out why I chose those particular states for Kerrington's mysterious place of origin. Digital high-five to the first person to figure out why. If no one figures it out, I'll put it in the concluding A/N for the next chapter.**

**Translations (I've studied Spanish for three years, but some things are a little foggy, so if you notice any errors please let me know):**

_**Pintura**_** = painting**

_**Muchas pinturas aqui**_** = many paintings here**

_**No se, señor**_** = I don't know, sir (or Mr.)**

_**Es la verdad**_** = That's the truth**

_**Lo que sea**_** = whatever**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I've never updated so fast so often in my life. xD This is kind of awesome. Kudos to angeleye68 for figuring out the state challenge! The states I mentioned are the home states of Matt Bomer (Texas), Tim DeKay (New York), Tiffani Theissen (California), and Willie Garson (New Jersey). =D**

The nightclub that Firefingers had loaned his nickname to was a totally legitimate business. The mortgage was paid, bouncers were hired to check ID and enforce maximum occupancy, and bartenders had all their required certification. It catered to the blue-collar crowd, even though its owner was a white-collar criminal, although most of the clientele were unaware of this. The location frequently changed, as did the identity of the owner. Currently, Firefingers was known as Damien Hadley, a single father who was running the club to help put his kids through school.

Firefingers had no children but he did have the club as his bridge between his blue-collar customers and his white-collar business. Those who needed to find him for his under-the-table dealings could always leave a calling card with the bartender, who would pass them along to the manic himself, even if he was in the building at the time.

Neal knew all of this full well, and was physically dragging Peter through the club. Peter, as per usual, felt out of his element amongst the loud music and dancing bodies. He was intrigued that Neal showed no interest in the girls who were partying it up – then again, they weren't quite up to Neal's caliber.

"So where is this Firefingers guy?" Peter shouted in Neal's ear, barely audible over the music. Neal turned around.

"I don't know," he shouted back. "But if he's here he's not going to want to talk to you at all. I don't even know if he'd want to talk to me, especially with you around."

"What did I do to him?"

"It's not you, it's your job."

Neal proceeded towards the bar in the back of the club, Peter holding onto his collar to be sure he wouldn't slip away.

The area around the bar was crowded, but Neal elbowed his way to the front, craning his neck to see the bartender.

He was a squat, bald man who somewhat resembled Mozzie in stature. Neal hailed him with two fingers and eye contact. The bartender finished the drink he was making before making his way to Neal.

"What can I get you, sir?"

"Is the owner in tonight?" Neal asked, lowering his voice somewhat. The bartender shook his head, which was the response that Neal was expecting. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a blank business card and a pen, scribbling his first name and phone number on it while Peter watched from over his shoulder.

"Give this to him," Neal said as he wrote. "Tell him that it's from Neal. If he asks Neal like seal, the answer is yes. He'll know what it means. Tell him to call as soon as he can."

He gave the card to the bartender, who gave him a knowing nod. He slipped the card into the pocket of his slacks and left to attend to the other customers. Neal turned back to Peter.

"Let's get out of here."

Peter, still highly confused, followed the younger man back through the crowd towards a side exit. Once outside and on the much quieter city streets, Peter jogged a little so that he was abreast with Neal.

"What was that about?"

"Paranoid schizophrenics tend to be difficult to find if you're actively looking for them," Neal said.

"So who is this Firefingers guy?"

"The man who taught me everything that I know."

Peter stared incredulously at him.

"There's another of you?"

Neal shook his head.

"He's better."

Peter tried not to imagine Neal's skills and then some embodied by one man. It was something of a painful thought, considering how much effort it had taken to catch Neal.

"How is he going to help us?"

"He knows a lot more about the people involved in things like this than ten FBI databases. I told you, he's a paranoid schizophrenic. He keeps tabs on everyone for reasons that rationality doesn't understand."

There was a silence as they approached Peter's car. Neal met the agent's eyes.

"We'll be lucky if he helps us at all," he said. "He hates cops. I'm banking on his relationship with me to convince him to help."

"I'm not a cop."

"He won't see a difference."

"So, when will we know?" Peter asked as he started the car and Neal buckled in.

"He could call in five minutes, five days, or never."

"What?"

"I told you, it was a long shot, but the only one I have. I'm trying, Peter."

"So you dragged me out of my house and away from my wife for a big giant maybe?"

Neal nodded.

"The good thing to know is that he's still alive. I didn't even know that until we went in there."

"And how do you know?" Peter said. He was now beginning to be more exasperated and even more annoyed than when Neal had originally called him.

"He was in there. I saw him."

"And you didn't think to talk to him directly?"

"Does the phrase 'paranoid schizophrenic' mean anything to you?"

They rode in silence for a time, Neal's arms folded across his chest. He stared out the window.

"I'm assuming his name isn't really Firefingers," Peter said, breaking the silence.

"Tory."

"Tory what?"

"Hell if I know."

"What's with the crazy nickname?"

Neal turned his head. Peter met his eyes briefly before looking back to the street.

"If you ever happen to meet him, try and get a look at his fingertips if you can."

"Do they spew fire?"

Neal gave him a look.

"Okay, okay, calm down."

The silence returned and stayed until Peter stopped in front of June's house. He put the car in park and looked at Neal.

Neal released the seat belt but stayed where he was.

"Peter... if we don't catch this guy, am I going to be held accountable?"

Peter genuinely didn't know how to answer. Sure, Neal was an easy scapegoat for when things went wrong. Lose a perpetrator? Ship Caffrey back to prison, no harm done. But Neal was making a genuine effort to catch Kerrington. Was it fair that he be punished for someone else's ability to get away?

"I don't know, Neal," he replied. "I certainly hope not."

Neal opened the car door and climbed out wordlessly.

"Keep me posted," Peter called as Neal shut the door and went inside.

xxx

It was well past two in the morning when the bartender at Club Firefingers realized it was closing time.

He shut down the DJ and sent all the partygoers home, having to physically eject a few who were too wasted to stand. He paid the bouncers and shooed them as well, locking the club doors and ensuring every corner of the building was empty before seeking out his boss.

Firefingers had dozed off in the janitorial closet of all places, strewn about between brooms and fresh toiletries. He held a broken mop handle in his hands. The bartender knocked on the open door lightly.

"Tory. Wake up."

The man on the floor jerked awake and was on his feet in a flash, broken mop held like a battle staff in front of him. The two men stared at each other momentarily.

"The potential for cheesy puns here is limitless," said the bartender in a bored voice.

Firefingers visibly relaxed, cracking a smile that showed none of his teeth.

"Should I do the honours or would you like to?"

"Let's skip honour and go straight to the part where you put that down and we leave like nothing happened," the bartender said, holding out his hand for the mop.

"I like it," Firefingers replied, ignoring his employee's outstretched hand and dropping the mop on the floor. "Closing time? Building on fire? Spontaneous appearance of Jesus to condemn sinners all?"

"The first one. And--" he reached into his pocket, "a calling card."

He handed over the card with Neal's name and number on it. Firefingers took it, staring at the writing quizzically.

"Neal?" he asked aloud. "Like seal?"

"He thought you'd say that, and the answer is yes."

Firefingers looked the other man in the eyes.

"Blue eyes, dark wavy hair?"

The bartender nodded.

"Did he say what he wanted?"

"Nope. Just left this card. I assume the intent is for you to call him."

Firefingers looked back down at the card.

"Thank you. See you whenever I decide to stop by again."

The two men left the closet, the bartender locking the door behind them.

"I'll be waiting with bated breath," he said dryly.

"Sounds unhealthy."

Firefingers exited the building through the side door Neal and Peter had used just hours before.

Neal Caffrey. How long had it been since he'd seen the kid? Four years, at the very least. He remembered with distaste when he discovered that his prodigy had been captured. Firefingers surmised that he must have gotten out of prison and was looking for advice on how not to get caught again.

He stopped himself. That made no sense. Neal knew that once the Man had you, there was no freedom no matter what rights were reinstated. This had to be something else. Help? With what? The kid had to know that pulling another stunt off so soon after getting out of prison was an idiot's venture at best.

Despite his disappointment in the kid, Firefingers couldn't help his curiosity. He may have been a schizophrenic but he had always found that finding answers was a good self-treatment for his condition, a practice which had served him well.

Before he was even two blocks from the nightclub, Firefingers knew he would make the call.

He wouldn't be able to live with not knowing.

Besides, whatever Neal wanted might be fun. He hadn't had any fun in a while – a resurgence in symptoms had compelled him to lay low for a while.

And, in truth, he wanted to know how the kid had been doing.

"Oh boy oh boy," he half-sang, grinning maniacally at the people he passed on the streets.

xxx

Neal was prompt into the office the following day. Something was compelling him to be a good little boy while waiting to see if his old mentor would call.

Peter, too, was on time, although he was a few minutes behind Neal, who was waiting in Peter's office with one ankle on the opposing knee.

"Morning, Peter," Neal said brightly as the agent set down his briefcase.

"Morning. Any news?"

Neal shook his head. It was a half-truth. He hadn't checked in with Mozzie, but he figured that no appearance by his informant meant there was no news.

"Well, at least it's consistent," Peter said sarcastically, sitting down in his chair.

"I do what I can."

No sooner had Neal finished speaking than his phone rang. He looked at the caller ID – the number was restricted. Of course. He glanced at Peter, who gestured at him to answer.

"Caffrey."

"Neal, old buddy old pal," said the other voice spryly. Neal's heart skipped a beat. He had actually called.

"Tory," Neal responded, trying to keep jubilation out of his voice. Peter glanced at him.

"The FBI, huh?" Firefingers said. "Please tell me you're in there to kick ass and take names."

"How did you--"

"I have my ways. Also you should look over your shoulder more often. Shameful lapse in awareness, my friend."

"I'll get on that."

"No you won't. So, FBI. What do they want from you and, more importantly, what do they want from me?"

Neal hesitated. He was a little surprised that Firefingers didn't know why he was there. He was afraid the older man would hang up once Neal told him, and he had no way of getting into contact with his mentor again.

"I... I work for them," he said, resigned.

"Do you now."

"Yeah. My services in exchange for getting out of prison."

"So you're selling my secrets to the enemy, is what you're saying."

"No!" Neal said sharply, causing Peter to raise an eyebrow. Neal held up one hand apologetically. "I'm not telling them... exactly how, but I am chasing after white collar criminals."

"If you're chasing me I wish you the best of luck."

"No, we're not after you. We're after... someone else, but so far he's outsmarted us all."

"Outsmarted you? Did prison make you stupid?"

Neal was starting to remember why Mozzie thought that Firefingers was incredibly irritating.

"Tory, I wanted to ask for your help, not be lectured for my shortcomings," Neal said, putting his metaphorical foot down.

There was a silence.

"Sorry," Neal said weakly.

"Don't apologize for sticking up to me. And if you apologize for apologizing I will come up there and smack you no matter how many cops are there."

"FBI."

"Same thing."

"Fine. Look, I'm thankful you called, but we can't leave my partner--"

"Partner? They got you cuffed to a copper now?"

"Out of this," Neal finished stubbornly. "What do you say to meeting somewhere private so we can properly discuss this?"

"I don't want to meet with a cop."

"It'll be just him and me. I promise. You can set the terms if you want. And if you don't want to help, fine, but at least let us explain what we're asking of you."

There was another pause. Neal met Peter's eyes and saw the unbearable curiosity in his brown irises. He could almost hear Firefingers weighing the odds.

"Play to my weakness of curiosity, very good. Fine then. Tomorrow, this time, at that French restaurant you like with the name I can't pronounce. You know the place."

"Les Deux Magots?"

"That one. You, your partner, and no one else. Expect me to be late but yourselves to be on time. Goodbye."

Firefingers hung up before Neal had a chance to reply. Neal set his phone down and stared at it. Peter stared at him.

"Well?"

Neal looked up.

"I hope you're in the mood for croissants tomorrow."

**A/N: Yes, Firefingers is a jerk. Mostly he's just berating Neal for getting caught, and mostly he's just being himself. And no, he and Peter are not going to get along. Good times!**

**The restaurant name was lifted from a book but I was too lazy to find the book and check the spelling. I don't know French but I believe it means The Two Bigwigs and is actually located in Paris. Creative license. Sue me.**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Oh my gosh, I went a day without updating! Probably because I skipped school and didn't have a meaningless T.A. hour to do nothing in. But it was a half-day and it would have only been 15 minutes, so I felt it was irrelevant to go. Anyhow.**

**Also I know I said this would be everyone, but I am in deep denial about the fall finale so we're going to pretend the whole Kate thing never happened. K? K.**

Chapter 5: Meeting

Neal and Peter walked side-by-side to the restaurant where they were to meet Firefingers. Peter was most certainly curious about the mysterious man, while Neal secretly had his fingers crossed that he would help them. He still hadn't heard from Mozzie and he was deathly afraid of losing Kerrington, and possibly his freedom, for good.

They requested a table for three, ordered drinks, and waited, making idle chit-chat about the weather, local news, and the like. They both steered clear of discussing the case for some unspoken reason.

Their drinks arrived and they ordered an appetizer to kill time and give the waitress something to do. It was an odd restaurant to attend for breakfast, but it wasn't terribly important.

The appetizer came and went and Peter eventually realized that they had been waiting for nearly an hour.

"How long is 'late' with this guy?" he asked.

"It depends on his mood."

Peter stared at his partner.

"What?" said Neal defensively.

"This is getting ridiculous."

"Do you have a better idea?"

Peter wordlessly conceded that he didn't by taking a sip of his water. Neal leaned his elbows on the table, slouching uncharacteristically. He sighed.

"Of course, with him, I'm stuck between a rock and a hard place. He's disappointed because I got caught, which in itself would leave potential for redemption. But I'm working for people that he hates, and that he would hate even if he was in a different business. It's going to take a lot of luck to win this one."

Peter's only response to Neal's monologue was to take another drink. The waitress bustled by again to see if they were ready to order entrees or if they wanted their check.

"Check, please," Peter said. Neal sat bolt upright.

"But he's not here yet," he protested.

"I can't wait all day for a psychotic flake who may or may not show up and may or may not help us even if he does show. There's work with my name on it."

Neal looked like someone had just told him that his favourite designer suit had just been hit by a car. The despair on his face was almost pathetic. Peter felt a quiver of sympathy before the waitress returned and he paid the bill.

"Let's go, Neal," he said as he stood up and removed his jacket from the back of the chair. Neal was reluctant to follow, but knew that he had very little choice. Together, the two men left the restaurant, Neal barely a step above dragging his feet like a disappointed child.

Peter's sympathy was quickly quelled by annoyance.

"Oh for crying out loud, Neal," he said.

"Like seal," a voice said from behind the both of them.

Neal and Peter spun on their heels, bumping shoulders accidentally in the process.

"Tory!" Neal said, relief obvious in his voice.

Firefingers had his back to the wall of the restaurant, one foot resting against the vertical surface. Peter gave him a once-over.

Had he not said anything, peter would never have guessed that an infamous con man was standing against the wall. His clothes were incredibly plain – blue jeans and a black wool jacket were complimented by a plain fedora hat and a pair of beat-up dirty sneakers. His light brown hair was long, tied at the nape of his neck in a ponytail, with a few stray hairs giving him a slightly wild look. He had a natural tan that made him look some sort of European.

He was the exact opposite of Neal. The only similarity was in their stature.

"Glad to see you showed up," he said.

Neal stared.

"What are you talking about? We've been waiting for over an hour for you to show up."

"Did you really think I was going to go inside and sit down for some pleasant chit-chat? Really, Neal, I know it's been a while, but I thought you knew me better than that."

Firefingers looked at Peter, and for the first time the FBI agent saw his eyes.

They were shockingly blue, like Neal's, but somehow they were much more intense. If eyes alone could command respect, Firefingers was a man to be respected indeed.

Peter suddenly remembered what Neal had said and tried to look at Firefingers's hands – anything to distract him from those powerful eyes. Unfortunately for Peter, his hands were in his pockets.

"Is this your cop friend?" Firefingers said.

"FBI Special Agent Peter Burke," he said, holding out a hand.

Firefingers stared.

"Don't really care what your name is. You're a cop and that's all that matters. I do, however, care what you and this troublesome young twerp want from me."

Peter glanced at Neal, who gave him a "this is what he's like" kind of shrug. Peter looked back at Firefingers.

"I'd rather discuss it somewhere more private," he said. "My office is only a few blocks from here. We could--"

"Go waltzing right into a cop den? No thanks. Your house, on the other hand, is private and cop-free, except for you. We could go there."

"Then why tell us to come here?"

"Spontaneously switching it up on you lessens the chance that you've got something up your sleeve. Switching to your house lessens that chance even further."

"You are not coming into my house," Peter said, half laughing in disbelief. Firefingers shrugged.

"Okay then. I'll be leaving."

Firefingers took two steps before Neal physically grabbed his upper arm.

"Wait," he said. Firefingers turned as much as he could with Neal still holding him. "We'll go to Peter's house. Just don't leave."

Peter glared at Neal, who begged wordlessly for compliance. He took a deep breath.

This was going to be a long, annoying struggle.

xxx

_Well, this is awkward,_ Peter thought.

He never imagined he'd have not one but two con men in his house. The thought of Neal strolling through his door and exchanging pleasantries with his wife was surreal enough, and now he had the man who had been Neal's teacher sniffing his mantelpiece.

Sniffing. Firefingers was literally sniffing the mantle, a look of amusement on his face.

"Not a bad little place," he said. "Doesn't hardly even smell like cop."

"Cops have a scent?"

"Think dead roses and soulless demons."

Peter was dumbfounded. Firefingers switched between obnoxious, rude, eccentric, and downright crazy without the slightest provocation. The next time that Peter thought Neal was irritating, he would remember this.

"Can we get to the point here?"

Firefingers turned. His hands were out of his pockets, now clasped innocently behind his back.

"What's the rush? You've got a pretty little house, a very-comfortable looking sofa, what's a moment or two shooting the breeze between friends?"

"Oh, so we're friends now?"

"Never."

There was no glare in the world that could appropriately convey Peter's annoyance to Neal.

"I'm starting to wonder if he's as competent as you say he is," he hissed at the younger man.

"Agent Burke," Firefingers said sharply, before Neal had a chance to reply. "What time is it?"

Peter was thrown by the question. He stuttered before remembering that he had a watch.

"Uh, it's – hey!" he shouted, tugging up his sleeve to see that his watch was gone.

Firefingers turned and stepped close to Peter. He held up his right arm, his jacket sleeve falling to reveal Peter's watch securely buckled to his wrist. He took it off and handed it to Peter.

"Doubt me again, please. I enjoy bewildering the cops," he said happily.

Peter looked at Neal.

"Kleptomania has its quirks," the younger man said innocently.

"Ain't that the truth," Firefingers beamed, clapping Neal on the shoulder. "What are you louts just standing around for? Don't we have important business to discuss?"

He took a seat at the dining room table, sitting with perfect posture, hands folded in his lap, looking for all the world like an innocent, happy-go-lucky youngster who was about to dutifully listen to a lecture from his parents, even though Peter was guessing Firefingers was the oldest in the room.

Peter had almost reached his limit of ridiculousness.

"Let me handle this," Neal said, sensing his partner's waning patience. He took the file out of Peter's briefcase and sat down with his old mentor. Peter, after a moment, joined them.

It wasn't long until Peter realized that Firefingers had been testing him, investigating what kind of person he was. He watched the mutual behaviour of the other men with interest. Contrary to his earlier act, Firefingers was alert and focused, listening to Neal retell the story with rapt attention.

"Nicholas Kerrington?" Firefingers said, interrupting Neal's monologue.

"That's what Salazar said. Do you know him?"

"Are you sure that he didn't say Nikolai Kerrington?"

Neal and Peter exchanged glances.

"I know of a Nikolai Kerrington, but Nicholas? Don't know him. And I know Salazar has a pretty thick accent. Misunderstandings are easy."

"We... hadn't thought of that," Neal said truthfully.

"If Nikolai Kerrington is all that you're looking for, he shouldn't be too difficult to find. He is clever, but he is also a sucker for surrealism. I believe one of his favourites is Dali."

"Hang on," Peter interrupted. "If his name is Nikolai Kerrington, how come we had so much information on Nicholas?"

"Shouldn't you be the one with the answer to that question?" Firefingers said smoothly. Peter opened his mouth to retort but no sound came out.

Firefingers looked up, his eyes bouncing from Neal to Peter and back.

"I'll help,' he said, "but I want something in return."

Neal looked to Peter.

"What do you want?" the agent asked.

"Safety. Your word that I'm not going to be investigated while I'm helping you. Your word that you'll remember this if by some crazy chance I am ever arrested."

"Deal," Peter said immediately, to the immense relief of Neal. Peter held out his hand to shake on it, but for a second time, Firefingers ignored it. Neal suppressed a giggle.

"We're in luck, too, gentlemen," Firefingers said calmly. "There is a Dali exhibit with five original works opening this weekend. If we can convince them to allow us the use of one of their paintings, I can make a forgery that we could use as bait."

Peter looked slightly taken aback.

"I don't know," he said. "Making a forgery? I don't know if I can condone that."

"I'm not going to sell it for profit. I'm doing it to help you. I'd invite you to destroy it but if it ends up any good, I'd like to keep it. Whether we do it this way or not is unimportant. I have a bone to pick with Kerrington. He's stolen some of my original work and I want it back."

Firefingers closed the file and keld it out to Neal.

"That's my least best plan, but it's also the one that is least likely to cause the cops to complain. It's a compromise. Take it or leave it."

"Your call, Peter," Neal said, taking the file and looking at the agent. Peter took a deep breath.

"Okay. I'll get in contact with the exhibit owners, tell them we suspect a forgery and need to analyze a piece."

Firefingers laughed, a short, high-pitched bark that was somewhat terrifying to Peter.

"Ha! That's ironic. Taking it on suspicion of forgery just to make a fake. Beautiful. I like your sense of humour, cop."

Peter suppressed the urge to snap that he had a name. Instead, he kept a straight face and looked at Firefingers.

"So... what piece should I ask them for?" he said stiffly.

"One of the more obscure pieces. The Persistence of Memory is a little obvious. Neal, you know Dali's work, you make sure he picks something good. And we'll want to isolate it in a separate storage location to be sure Kerrington goes after the fake – mostly because I don't have the work ethic to recreate all five pieces. Shouldn't be too tough for you cop types, right?"

"We're FBI."

"It's law enforcement. Same thing."

After a moment, Peter nodded. "Fine. We'll get everything set up."

"Excellent," Firefingers said. "Do you have pen and paper?"

Peter had a pen in his pocket, which he set down on the table before getting up to find a piece of paper. Once he'd found it, he returned to the table and handed it to Firefingers.

As the man extended his hand to take it, peter got a glimpse of the con artist's fingertips.

It took a lot of self-control not to gasp.

The tips of his fingers were perfectly smooth. They looked almost like they were giant blisters, except they weren't raised. They were, however, pale, colourless, and completely smooth.

He didn't have fingerprints.

Firefingers took the pen and paper and wrote down an address. His handwriting was incredibly neat and small, the writing easily legible.

"This is where I currently live. Bring me the painting. This address will self-destruct in twenty-four hours. Or, y'know it just won't belong to me anymore. Whatever the next occupant does is none of my business."

He stood up, ready to leave.

"I can't wait for Kerrington to get his dues," he said, a little bit giddy. "That bastard has done me a lot of damage."

He looked at Neal.

"Good to see you again, kid."

And without so much as a glance at Peter, he left.

Peter blinked.

"Well, he certainly is an interesting character," he said.

"He's a lot easier to deal with once you realize he's overplaying the insanity thing. I'd check your pockets and throughout this room to be sure he didn't swipe anything, though."

"I got the feeling that he was testing me."

"That too. Trust me, the fact that he even addressed you by name once is huge. He does have a grudging trust for you, albeit an extremely small trust."

Peter sat in silence, pensive for a moment.

"I saw his fingers," he said after a while.

"Did they spit fire at you?" Neal teased. Peter gave him a look.

"No fingerprints."

"Paranoid schizophrenia plus white collar criminal equals he'll do anything to avoid capture, including burning his own fingertips to get rid of his fingerprints. That's also not his real hair."

Peter was shocked.

"He did what?"

"Burned his fingers. With fire. Hence, Firefingers, although no one really calls him that to his face. It's Tory or whatever his alias du jour is."

There was a pause.

"He did what?"

"Call the damn art gallery."

**A/N: Please let me know if you see any typos. I was extremely tired while typing this and I made about a bajillion errors that I don't think I entirely caught. xD**

**Also you should go to Twitter and follow Jeff Eastin, the creator of the show. He's in a war with the creator of Burn Notice to see who can get more followers. Eastin posted a picture of Neal skinny dipping in the upcoming season finale as a bribe. ;D**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Holy hand grenade this took me a while. I had an extremely busy weekend and the only thing I really accomplished was laundry. Volunteer work is time consuming! I also gave myself a nasty cut on one finger while opening a box of doughnuts so my typing ability is impaired. Please forgive typos.**

**Reviews! I like them! Also, I have a few ideas for stories including Firefingers after this one's finished. The more reviews I get the more likely I am to do them. ;)**

Chapter 6: The Triangular Hour

"I cannot believe you conned them into this," Neal said, placing the carefully wrapped painting gently in the back of Peter's car, a grin stretching across his face. "This is a genuine Dali painting. It's worth so much."

"Don't get any ideas," Peter growled. Neal closed the car and turned to face Peter.

"How can you not appreciate this? It's classic Dali. Classic surrealism."

"It's a rock with a hole in it."

"Surrealism."

"Get in the car."

Neal obeyed, still excited by the proximity of the priceless painting. Temptation was there, of course, but surrealism wasn't his favourite thing in the world -- he just had a diehard appreciation for art.

Peter punched the address Firefingers had given him into a GPS and started the car. He glared at Neal until the con man remembered his seat belt, before pulling out into traffic.

"So what do you know about this guy?" Peter said.

"Nikolai?"

"No, Tory."

"I thought you agreed not to investigate him."

"Investigation and curiosity are two different things."

Neal sighed, and glanced out of the window at the slow-moving traffic beside them.

"I don't really know who he is or where he comes from," he said after a pause. "I don't really even remember how we met. Frankly he keeps quite a lot to himself. And yeah, he's irritating as hell but he's like an overgrown playground bully. He wants your reaction. It tells him a lot about the person that you are. And he feels the more he can learn about others while not giving himself away, the safter he'll be. By now I guarantee you he's found out everything about you -- your birthday, your wife's name, how long you've worked with the FBI. That's all quantitative stuff. He's looking for qualitative now."

"So I should just let him be a jerk to me?"

"No. Stick up to him. You'll never be on his good side but you can at least earn his respect."

It was Peter's turn to sigh. "Great. So I'm working with a man who hates me because of my job and I'm supposed to just swallow that."

"Pretty much."

Peter chewed on his lip.

"So he's a con artist like you, right?"

Neal nodded.

"Very little that he owns is actually his. Like I said, he's a kleptomaniac in addition to everything else that's messed up inside his head."

"And he's not locked up for what reason?"

"He probably has been and just sweet-talked the staff into letting him walk."

"He doesn't seem the type to sweet-talk."

"I had to learn it from somewhere, didn't I?"

"I thought that was natural."

"Nah. Charm is natural. Sweet-talking is an art."

Peter fell silent again.

"Tory is a man of surprises," Neal continued. "For example, he has a great fashion sense despite how he was dressed the other day. But again, he is trying to avoid being conspicuous."

"Paranoid schizophrenia, I get it. Aren't there treatments for that?"

"I dare you to ask him about it."

"Unpleasant response?"

"Very."

"Great," Peter said under his breath. If Hughes wasn't practically breathing fire down his neck, he would've given up the chase just because of how ridiculous the whole thing was becoming. Nikolai or Nicholas or whatever his name was would've been bound to show up again eventually.

Peter followed the instructions of the monotonously-voiced GPS, turning when instructed until the machine pointed out their destination.

It was a totally nondescript townhouse sandwiched between several similar structures. Peter would never have guessed it was the residence -- albeit temporary -- of a white collar mastermind. He was beginning to wonder if Firefingers was all Neal had him cracked up to be.

"Is this the place?" Neal asked in disbelief.

"I was going to ask you the same question."

Peter parked and turned the car off. He and Neal walked side by side up the stoop, Neal carrying the painting with the same care a new mother might use to carry a newborn.

"Here's how you do this. Ring the bell, wait a minute, knock three times, wait another minute, then ring the bell again."

"There's a process."

"He only answers if it's something important, and if it's something important you'll be more earnest for his attention. Wait a full sixty seconds. He times the gap."

"If he has any more of these stupid rules, I'm not going to listen," Peter said grumpily. He rang the bell and pulled his sleeve back from his watch, waiting as the tiny second hand moved in a circle. When it had done a full revolution, Peter knocked three times. Neal shifted his weight, still holding the painting with great care.

After another minute Peter pressed the doorbell again. Firefingers opened it immediately, beaming.

"Neal! And the cop whose name I don't care to remember! It's been so long -- please, do come in."

Firefingers bounded happily away from the door. Neither of the other two men felt like mentioning that it had been barely over 24 hours since their last meeting -- instead, they stepped inside and Peter shut the door.

What looked externally like a run-of-the-mill townhouse was actually a massive, beautiful mansion. Instead of being restricted to one unit, all the walls separating the five units had been knocked down (save a few load-bearing pillars) to create one enormous dwelling. Peter's jaw almost dropped. The decor was exquisite. A minimalist arrangement made the house feel free and, somehow, artistic. Paintings lined the walls, which Peter assumed were all original works -- Firefingers wasn't stupid enough to display stolen work.

"Wow," Peter said. Neal smirked.

Firefingers himself couldn't have been in greater contrast. He was wearing torn jeans and a T-shirt, both heavily splattered with paint, as were his arms. He had abandoned the hat but his hair was still tied. He seemed extraordinarily happy -- not at all like the sardonic, mostly emotionless man they had seen yesterday.

Peter and Neal followed him into the amalgamated living room, spanning almost the entire building. He eyed the covered painting in Neal's arms with a covetous glint in his eye.

"Let's see it, then," he said, sounding like an eager child on Christmas morning.

Neal, matching the older man's enthusiasm, set the painting down upon an armchair, letting the cover slide off.

There was a definite sparkle in Firefingers's eyes as he clapped his hands.

"_The Triangular Hour!_" he said gleefully. "Wonderful. I'm amazed that it's here in New York -- usually it's in a gallery in Japan."

"On loan for this special exhibit," Neal said. Firefingers got in close to the painting.

"This... is wonderful."

He carefully examined every inch of the painting, his eyes alight. Peter stood awkwardly a few feet behind him, hands in his pockets.

"Mind telling me what the big deal is?" he voiced after a time.

"_The Triangular Hour,_ painted in 1933, oil on canvas, 24 and a half by 18 and three-quarter inches. Typically on display at Kagoshima City Museum of Art, Kagoshima, Japan," rattled Firefingers without looking up. "Painted two years following Dali's most famous work, _Melting Time_ also known as _The Persistence of Memory._ Soft clocks became a theme in Dali's work following that piece, which you can see represented right here."

He pointed to the iconic image, still admiring the piece.

"No crack about how I'm a stupid cop?"

"I don't expect the cops to know much about art. You need a soul to appreciate true beauty."

Neal hid his smile under a cough.

"So what're your little friends up to?" Firefingers asked. "What's the plan?"

"They're setting up surveillance as we speak. 24-hour coverage. We got word that someone called Nolan Grekit booked a private tour of the gallery prior to its opening weekend, paid a handsome fee to get inside early. And, coincidentally, Nolan Grekit is an anagram of Nikolai Kerrington, discounting repeated letters."

"Clever bastard, he is not. Although he did pull the wool over my eyes once. Sold him a few pieces and then he returned later and stole some more. I hope for his sake that he has not ruined them."

Firefingers looked back at the Dali painting, picking it up with even more care than Neal had. Peter was about to scold him about leaving fingerprints before remembering that the con man had thought of it long before he had.

"Right then. To business."

He padded down the tile hallway, his bare feet echoing against the tile. Neal followed him like a loyal puppy, Peter hanging a little behind. The hallway, like the massive living room, was lined with artwork in gilded frames that matched the sparse furnishings. Peter stopped in front of a painting featuring a dancing girl with rainbows sprouting from her fingers -- a beautifully rendered piece with intricate detail and masterful skill. The girl was pretty, looking a little bit like Elizabeth, although her face was narrower and her hair was considerably longer.

Peter looked for a signature, an indication for Firefingers's real identity. All he could find was the inscription "For my rainbow -- Tory" tucked in the folds of the girl's dress.

Peter vaguely wondered if Firefingers had a lover.

He realized suddenly that Neal and Firefingers had disappeared. He scurried down the hall until he could hear their voices, and followed them to what had to be the smallest room in the house.

It was covered floor-to-ceiling with art supplies -- canvases, easels, brushes, pencils, and other things that Peter couldn't identify from his rudimentary understanding of visual arts. The room's carpeting had been torn up in favour of a bolted-down plastic tarp. Peter noticed Neal had removed his shoes and he did the same. it had none of the elegance of the rest of the house, but it was clearly Firefingers's favourite room. There was a small cot tucked in one corner with a throw blanket and small pillow on it.

Peter edged into the small room and watched as the older con artist picked out a blank canvas matching the size of the original. He pulled it out and set it up on an easel alongside the Dali painting.

"You might want to look away, Agent Burke," Firefingers said, somewhat jokingly. Peter declined the offer and continued to watch.

Neal and his mentor had obviously done this together before, as the older man would call out an item and Neal would immediately track it down. Peter watched, leaning his back against the only empty square of wall space that he could find. Excruciatingly slowly, the painting began to take shape. Peter found himself moving from fascination to interest to utter boredom as the minutes turned to hours and the hours started to blend together. Peter started entertaining himself with a rubber band he found on the floor.

"And now," Firefingers said after what felt to Peter like years, "it needs to be appropriately aged."

He handed the canvas to Neal, who handled it delicately.

"You know what to do," he said. Neal nodded and left the room. Firefingers looked down at Peter, who was now sitting on the tarp with the rubber band between his fingers. Peter met the man's intense stare.

"So, are you the one who arrested Neal?" he asked. Peter nodded.

"Kudos to you -- you outsmarted the kid. That's no easy task. He's smart."

"Did you just compliment a member of law enforcement?"

"Shows how much you know about me," he said with a confident smile.

A moment of silence passed, in which Firefingers turned to inspect the opposite wall. Peter couldn't suppress his curiousity, the investigator in him refusing to sit quietly, left alone in a room with an incredibly enigmatic character.

"So who are you, Tory?"

"I am a man of many identities, Agent Burke. And yes, there is a certain enjoyment I get out of giving you cryptic and unhelpful responses. Your nature is to investigate, my nature is to blend in. There's some obvious conflict there."

Peter was somewhere between impressed and annoyed. Before he had time to ask anything else, however, Neal returned.

"It's in the oven," he said. "Timer's set."

"Good. Thank you, Neal."

He replaced the cover on the original painting and handed it to Neal, who was in the process of putting his shoes back on. Peter got to his feet and did the same.

"Agent Burke," Firefingers said. Peter turned. "I have a specific interest in this case. Seeing as how you have employed my errant young friend, I can conclude that you have little issue working with criminals. Would you or your superiors be adverse to allowing me to be a part of this investigation?"

Peter glanced at Neal, who looked as surprised as Peter felt.

"Are you sure, Tory?" Neal asked, sounding dumbfounded.

"Yes, it is an unusual request on my part, but I've told you repeatedly that Kerrington owes me blood. I would quite enjoy bringing him down, even if it means working with Agent Burke and his ilk."

There was a prolonged silence. Firefingers seemed willing to wait forever for an answer.

"I'll... have to run it by my superior before I can give you an answer."

"Please, do let me know. I would be happy to lend my services. Additionally, you may refer to me as Tory Shepherd, if he asks for a full name."

Peter glanced at Neal, who grinned sheepishly.

"I can't promise anything -- working with you at all has been to this point off the records. But I can try."

"Thank you, Agent Burke. You're not as bad as I thought you were."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

**A/N:** **If you want to know what **_**The Triangular Hour**_** looks like, go here! .**

**Fun things to come! Stay tuned! =D**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: When the devil did I get so busy? xD Hi kids! Long time no see. Going to school six days a week is starting to take its toll on my time. I fail.**

**Reviews plz?**

Chapter 7: Stakeout

Peter took a deep breath before he knocked on the door of Hughes's office. The man looked up and gestured for Peter to enter.

"What's the word on the Kerrington case?" Hughes said before Peter had a chance to say anything.

"That's just what I was coming to talk to you about," Peter said, sitting down in a rush. "This is going to sound very bad and very crazy, but I need you to hear me out on this before you react."

He waited to proceed until Hughes nodded.

"Through Neal's connections, we've found out that Kerrington – whose name is actually Nikolai – has an interest in surrealist art. Through our own connections we confirmed that Kerrington has booked a private tour of a special surrealism gallery. We think he may be after one of the pieces, whose value recently soared well past the prices of the others in the set. We've set up 24-hour surveillance to catch him if he tries to make off with it."

Hughes was nodding. "Good work, Peter."

"I'm not finished. The source Neal got that information from is... is a man named Tory Shepherd. Apparently he and Neal were once very close partners. Neal asked him for help in finding more information on Kerrington, and now Shepherd has asked to be a part of this case through the end. I told him I would have to consult you. He's waiting for an answer."

Hughes stared at Peter, his brow furrowed. Peter momentarily wondered if he should have mentioned the copied painting, a detail he had left out intentionally.

"We already have one con artist in the employ of the bureau," Hughes said.

"I know. And we would have no control over Shepherd like we do over Neal."

"How do we know he's not dangerous?"

"Neal trusts him. And I trust Neal."

Hughes sat back in his chair, hands folded in his lap.

"What does this guy have to offer that Caffrey doesn't?"

"He knows Kerrington. He's also carrying a grudge. And he knows this better even than Neal. If anything goes wrong, he can be there for us."

"You're planning for failure?"

"No, no, of course not. But Kerrington is clever. Shepherd has inside knowledge. It's why we hired Neal, but we've found one area where Neal's inside knowledge is lacking."

Hughes pondered the issue a moment. Peter realized he was holding his breath and suddenly wondered why he was so worried whether or not Hughes would say yes. He had a hunch it was either Neal rubbing off on him or his insuppressible curiosity about Firefingers.

"I'm not putting him on payroll," Hughes said. "If you want him you have to convince him to work for free. And do a background check on him. You find any evidence against him, you arrest him when this is all said and done."

"Of course," Peter lied, choosing to keep to himself the promise he had made. "Thanks, Hughes."

"Good luck, Peter."

Peter left the office, leaving Hughes alone to his work.

Neal was waiting on the lower level, leaning against Jones's desk and chatting with the agent. Both men looked up as Peter descended the stairs.

"What'd he say?" Neal asked.

"Convince him to work without compensation and we're clear."

"Excellent," Neal said, flashing a white-toothed smile.

xxx

"What?" Mozzie exclaimed, an expression of slack-jawed amazement on his face. Neal put his hands up in a "relax" gesture.

"I know it's totally crazy, but if it keeps me out of prison, I'm willing to do it."

"You couldn't have come to me. You had to go to the mad schizophrenic with issues connecting to the real world."

"Do you have any leads?" Neal asked matter-of-factly. Mozzie was momentarily silenced.

"Yeah, exactly," Neal replied. He stood up from the table in his little suite and paced a small radius around it.

"I feel like we're missing something, though," Neal said. "This is too simple. Kerrington hires Salazar to pull off some heists and confuse the police by tampering with the surveillance cameras to make it look like he's in two places at once. But that's a simple ruse, easily figured out, especially after we arrested Salazar. Maybe he was also banking on Salazar mispronouncing his name. Maybe that's why there's so much random information on Nicholas Kerrington – it was a plant. A taunt."

"And would explain why I couldn't find anything either."

"But is that really it?" Neal stopped pacing and let his hands fall to his sides. He looked at Mozzie. "Is the unsure chance of mispronouncing his name really the only cover that he has?"

"Doesn't seem like a very smart move for someone who outsmarted Tory," agreed the shorter man.

"We're missing something."

Both men were silent for a short while.

"So what do we do?"

"We wait. It's his move."

Mozzie took a sip of his drink and sat back.

"I still can't believe that Firefingers is helping on this," he said. Neal smirked.

"What?"

"You're going to go see him, aren't you?"

"No," Mozzie said in a tone that convinced Neal to the contrary.

"There is no way you hate him as much as you say you do."

"I never hated him," he replied in a completely honest voice. "Just thought he was insane and not very trustworthy and in desperate need of mental help."

"He's trustworthy."

"How do you know?"

It was Neal's turn to fall silent.

"I just know, okay?" he said after a fashion. "I'm going to need you on standby if this backfires. Keep digging into Nikolai Kerrington. See if you can find out what he's hiding."

"At the rate we're all going, I should be on the FBI payroll myself," Mozzie grumbled. Neal gave him a look.

"Please do this for me?" he asked in an exasperated voice.

"I'll do it, I'll do it."

"Thank you. And tell Tory he's on for tomorrow."

xxx

Peter himself went hunting for files. He wasn't searching for Nikolai Kerrington – he already had Lauren doing that. He was searching instead for Tory Shepherd.

He highly doubted that it was Firefingers's real name, but it was the best he had. The closest he came was Mitchell Shepherd. He knew it wasn't the right person but he pulled it off the shelf anyway.

He put it back when he saw Mitchell Shepherd's fingerprints enclosed in the file. Plus, the guy was dead.

"Who are you, Tory?" he said to himself, putting his hands on his hips. He momentarily considered searching for every Tory in the file room, but it seemed like too much of a task for him to do alone. And he definitely didn't want to invite anyone to join him.

It wasn't an investigation. Just curiosity.

He meandered over to the C section, where a small portion of files on Neal were kept for easy reference. He pulled the basic file that reported statistical information on Neal – name, aliases, known relations, criminal history, and so forth. It was another long shot that Firefingers would be mentioned, but it would be worth a shot.

He scanned the familiar paperwork, leaning against the table in the middle of all the shelves. Neal's mother's maiden name was Shepherd, but Peter dismissed it. He ran his finger over the paperwork, remembering that at one point he had the entire thing memorized – he could have correctly guessed the size of the font and how many centimeters were between each paragraph – but the years had dulled his memory a bit. He didn't quite know how many centimeters were in the margins anymore.

He gave up after a few moments. Neal would never have acknowledged Firefingers in the past. There was nearly no chance he was mentioned anywhere in Neal's paperwork.

Peter returned the file to its proper place and gathered his belongings, his thoughts turning to the much less serious subject of going home to his wife and enjoying a nice dinner with her.

xxx

The next morning, Neal awoke to a knock on his door.

Blinking sleep from his eyes, Neal looked at the bedside clock. It was way too early for it to be Peter asking why he was late – as if he was ever late. He rolled reluctantly out of his comfortable, warm bed and shuffled to the door.

"Morning, Neal," Firefingers said brightly.

"You're up early," he replied, stepping aside to let the other man in.

"So are the poor blokes watching the art gallery. I stopped by them on the way here. They look exhausted."

"You seem a little too excited about this."

"Kerrington owes me."

"Is that all there is to this?"

Firefingers paused, glancing at Neal out of the corner of his eye.

"Very astute. There's not many reasons why I'd associate with law enforcement. I could get revenge on Kerrington myself. But, like your FBI friend, I'm curious. I want to see what you're up to and who you're working with. And if I can get back at Kerrington in the meantime, all the better. One bird, two stones, all that nonsense."

"If you say so."

Firefingers turned his back and raided the fridge while Neal dressed himself. He munched on a bagel as Neal buttoned up his shirt.

"So what's the plan, kid?" Firefingers asked.

"I take you to the FBI, as a visitor, for a briefing, and then we go help with the stakeout," Neal said. "Kerrington's tour is in a few hours. We're all going to be on alert for the next twenty-four hours."

"Do I have to go to their headquarters?"

"Yes, if you really want to help with this. Hughes wants to meet you, get to know if he can trust you or not."

"Hughes?"

"The head honcho."

"Great."

"Hey, you asked to help. This is what we need for you. Either cowboy up or go home."

Firefingers made a face and sat down at the table to finish his stolen breakfast. Neal proceeded with getting himself together.

"How's Mozzie been?"

"Same as ever. You haven't seen him?"

"Saw him last night," he said through a mouthful of bagel. "Still hasn't found his hair, I see."

"Nope."

Neal had moved to the bathroom where he was fixing his hair with a little water and his hands. He hadn't wanted to admit it but being with Firefingers had become unbearably awkward. His years in prison had created a distance between them that seemed irreparable to Neal. He could almost smell a buried disappointment every time his old mentor looked at him, even though Firefingers hadn't said anything.

Part of him hoped he was imagining it.

Neal finished getting ready, flipping his hat onto his head and straightening his tie. He looked at Firefingers, who was dressed in jeans and a leather jacket.

"What?"

"You're a little underdressed."

"Just because I'm temporarily joining the suits doesn't mean I have to wear one."

Neal chuckled.

"For a white collar kind of guy you're not very white collar."

Firefingers smirked.

"Contradictions convolute the course," he intoned.

"I missed those platitudes."

The two men shared a small laugh as they left, confidence tricksters en route to the very people they once avoided.

xxx

"Shiny," Firefingers said, examining the visitor badge clipped to his jacket.

Neal held the White Collar Crime Unit door open, allowing Firefingers to go before him. Peter was waiting alongside Hughes at the bottom of the stairs. The FBI agent leaned towards his superior.

"If you have any valuables on your person I suggest keeping an eye on them."

Hughes shot him a confused look as Neal and Firefingers approached.

"Morning Peter, Hughes," Neal said. He was largely ignored, however, Hughes's attention focused on Firefingers, who was surveying the senior agent with polite distaste.

"Special Agent Reese Hughes," he said, holding out a hand. Neal and Peter exchanged glances.

"Tory Shepherd," he replied, ignoring the outstretched hand. "How may I be of service?"

"We're going to go take over observation," said Peter. "Kerrington's tour is a few hours from now, which gives us plenty of time to get into place. Briefing in the conference room, come on."

The little troupe walked up the stairs to the conference room, where the others involved in the operation were waiting.

"We'll be splitting up into teams," Peter said, picking up a stack of files from the table and throwing one at everyone. "There's two observation trucks on the north and south of the building, respectively. We've set up some outposts in the surrounding buildings as well. Lauren, you're with the west crew, they're monitoring the video feeds. Jones, you're in charge of the mobile units, they'll be expecting you in the north, closer to the front entrance. Neal and Tory, you guys are going to be on the inside playing the role of gallery employees, since you both know more about art than anyone else here. Keep an eye on any suspicious activity. I'll be with an immediate response group in the basement. Anything goes wrong, we'll be there first. Anyone goes for the vault, you send an alert to us. You'll have earpieces so we can hear you."

Neal glanced at Firefingers, who was standing by the door with an impassive expression. Hughes handed Neal the earpieces.

"I want these returned," he said pointedly.

"Scout's honour."

Peter glanced around at everyone in the room.

"Does everyone understand their role?" he asked.

Everyone except Firefingers nodded, but Peter presumed it was from a distaste with being present rather than being connected to any misunderstanding.

"Good. Go do it."

The room emptied out until it was only Peter, Neal, Firefingers, and Hughes.

"You had better be right about this, Shepherd," Hughes said.

"If I'm wrong, I won't let it go until I'm right. Kerrington owes me."

The two stared at each other for a moment as if locked in a silent battle of wills. Peter and Neal exchanged glances again.

Hughes, eventually, nodded.

"That's a good enough answer for me. Now go. Burke, good luck."

The three men left the room, leaving Hughes alone to wonder why he was letting two con men have a leading role in a department designed to catch con men.

**A/N: Hopefully the next chapter won't be so long in getting to you. xD I've just been tired and busy and such lately, so yeah.**

**Thank you for reading! Please review! It means a lot to me!**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Aaaagh you guys make it so hard not to outright answer your questions and assumptions. XD I promise everything will be worked out in time! The fact that I'm getting said questions is proof to me that I'm doing my job. ;D I will just say that there is a lot more to this than I'm letting on. It's like Transformers! Teehee.**

**I live for reviews, even if you call me a drunk monkey with Down syndrome and a busted pen who shouldn't be allowed to write ever again. :D**

Chapter 8: Fast One

Peter was waiting impatiently in the basement of the gallery for Neal and Firefingers to show up. The gallery had very specific dress codes for its employees, and Peter had sent them both away to change. Neal had whined somewhat that the suits were cheap, run-of-the-mill pieces (Peter had glared when Neal complained they were too much like Peter's suits), so his patience was already wearing thinner than usual. He glanced at a woman sitting uncomfortably in a chair by the wall – she was the gallery's owner, and was understandably unnerved by the swarm of FBI attention.

He paced the impromptu command center, checking his watch every couple of seconds. How long did it take those two to change into some plain old suits?

No sooner had he thought that than he heard footsteps on the stairs. He turned to see Neal and Firefingers descending, the former still straightening his tie.

"You clean up nicely," Peter said to Firefingers, repressing the urge to smirk.

"This is nothing, my friend's keeper," he replied.

"Right." He turned to the gallery owner, who stood up. "This is Michelle Tahinen, she owns this place. Kerrington requested she lead the tour personally, but you two are going to be pacing the display floor to play the role of extra help. You stick close to her, because if she gets hurt, it's your fault. Got it?"

Both Neal and Firefingers seemed to be ignoring him, both admiring Michelle's beauty. Firefingers took her hand and kissed it gently.

"Wonderful to meet you, madam," he said. "My name is Tory Shepherd, and this is my young friend Neal Caffrey."

"Who, for the day, is going by Nick Holden," Neal said, flashing his charming smile and bowing slightly to Michelle. Peter resisted the urge to smack his own forehead.

"I appreciate your help, gentlemen. I understand through Agent Burke that you both have knowledge of the pieces in this gallery?"

"Naturally," said Firefingers.

"Then I won't waste your time explaining the history of the works. Grekit – or Kerrington as you know him – is supposed to arrive in fifteen minutes."

"Get into place," Peter said. "It's go time."

Firefingers smiled at Peter, almost as charmingly as Neal.

"This should be fun," he said, before following Neal and Michelle up the stairs to the main floor of the gallery.

The two men obediently followed Michelle as she walked to the large glass doors at the front of the gallery, where a few hired hands mingled with disguised FBI agents playing the role of caterers. Firefingers picked up three glasses of champagne from one of the tables they were setting up.

"To catching a thief," he said cheerfully, handing a glass to Neal and Michelle and keeping the third for himself. The three drank the champagne and handed the glasses back to one of the caterers.

"Nervous?" Neal asked Firefingers, smiling slightly.

"Confidence artists and nerves go together like fish and deserts," he replied. "Did prison make you stupid, boy? It's like you don't even know me anymore."

Neal opened his mouth to reply but nothing came out. After a short moment, he closed it again. Michelle looked at both of them.

"Okay, awkwardness aside, Grekit's on his way. Let me do most of the talking – it was his request, not my idea – and you two just stay close."

"Fair enough," Neal said, and Michelle walked away, to wait out in the gallery lobby. Neal and Firefingers watched her leave.

"Places, gentlemen," Firefingers said to the disguised FBI agents. "The show is about to begin."

xxx

Kerrington was accompanied by a beautiful woman he introduced as Leona, and a large man he called Paul who seemed to be Kerrington's bodyguard. Neal followed them from a distance as Michelle led them through the gallery, briefly discussing certain pieces unrelated to the special exhibit. Neal noticed that Kerrington looked uninterested in some of the best pieces in the gallery – something that irked him slightly. Neal considered it proper to respect and appreciate art, even if you were an art thief.

Occasionally Neal would answer a question or two from Kerrington or Leona – Paul said very little if anything at all. Mostly he followed them like a loyal puppy dog, and they let him be. Michelle had introduced him as Mr. Holden, an employee of the gallery who was playing the role of escort.

Firefingers had gone to wait closer to the exhibit. His forgery was stored away from the others, which, fortunately, were either Dali's non-surrealism work or much less valuable than the Triangular Hour. He mentally thanked Neal for picking the most obvious piece for stealing.

He stood at attention as Michelle and the little troupe of thieves approached him. Michelle turned to address Kerrington.

"And this is the piece de resistance of our gallery, the Dali Exhibit, featuring five paintings on loan to us from around the world. This gallery opens to the public tomorrow, but you have the privilege of being the first allowed inside."

She gestured at Firefingers.

"This is Mr. Shepherd, another one of our employees here. He is an expert on Dali and his work and will be able to answer any questions that you may have. Mr. Shepherd, remind me what works we have on display."

"Of course, Ms. Tahinen," he said, flashing a charming smile that rivaled Neal's. "We have the great fortune of displaying a small sample of Dali's extensive range of work. We have Figure at a Window and Still Life with Moonlight from his early, pre-surrealism days, along with Apparition of Face and Fruit Dish on a Beach and The Invention of Monsters, two excellent samples of Dali's work with surrealism. As the capstone to this exhibit, we have The Triangular Hour, a piece whose value recently skyrocketed along with the popularity of post-Persistence of Memory pieces. A small collection, but one that I think encompasses Dali's best works."

His smile never left his face, and as he wound down his monologue, Firefingers winked at Leona. Down below in the basement, Peter had to admit he could see the correlation between him and Neal. He spoke smoothly, in a voice that held the interests of his listeners but was soothing at the same time.

"The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, does it?" Peter said to himself.

Upstairs, Michelle was unlocking the exhibit doors. When she finished, she turned to face the little group, Firefingers by her side.

"Mr. Grekit and company, I present to you, Five Faces of Salvador Dali."

She led the group inside, Firefingers and Neal bringing up the rear. Once the doors closed, Neal stood by them while Firefingers strolled the perimeter of the room, admiring the pieces himself. At the far end of the ovular room was another door, which Michelle unlocked as well.

"Through here is The Triangular Hour," she said. "We keep it separate because it is, as Mr. Shepherd said, the capstone of our exhibit."

Leona detached herself from Kerrington and leaned close to The Invention of the Monsters. Firefingers approached her.

"Such a macabre work," she said, squinting at the piece.

"Dali had an interesting mind," Firefingers said smoothly. "Many of his surrealist pieces seem to be born from nightmares although actually are much more likely the by-product of his... shall we say unique sexual practices, combined with a natural appreciation for the art of interpretation. This particular work was done in 1937, using Dali's most common method of oil on canvas. It is typically on display in Chicago."

Kerrington glanced at Firefingers from where he was examining Figure at a Window.

"You seem to be rather knowledgeable about Dali," he said. Firefingers smiled at him.

"It is simply my job description, Mr. Grekit," he said. "My friend Mr. Holden is equally knowledgeable in this regard."

Kerrington glanced at his bodyguard, who was looking at Neal with an expression that made the younger man uncomfortable.

"Really? And how long have you worked for this gallery, Mr. Shepherd?"

Firefingers glanced at Michelle.

"Oh, long enough to have learned about the pieces here," he said, still smiling.

Downstairs, Peter raised a finger. He didn't like the way Kerrington was sounding. The agents around him sat up a little straighter.

Firefingers and Kerrington locked eyes for a moment. Neal saw a brief flash of puzzlement dart across Firefingers's face before returning to a charming, innocent look.

"Miss Tahinen," Kerrington said without taking his eyes off the other man. "I'm feeling a slight bit thirsty. Would you be so kind as to bring one of your waiters with some champagne, or is that against gallery rules?"

Michelle blinked.

"Well... as long as you stay towards the middle of the room with your drinks, I will be willing to overlook it."

"Thank you, my darling."

Neal stepped away from the door to allow Michelle to pass. Downstairs, Peter nodded at the agents, who began suiting up.

"Mr. Shepherd, I'm curious," Kerrington was saying upstairs. Peter paused to listen. "This is not the first time in recent history I've visited Ms. Tahinen's gallery. I rather enjoy coming here, largely because of the variation in the gallery and Ms. Tahinen's genuine appreciation for art. However I do not recall seeing either you or Mr. Holden on my last venture here. Tell me, precisely how long have you worked here?"

"Well, obviously since after your last visit," Firefingers said.

"You've worked here only a month?"

Firefingers's eyes widened, and he laughed. Kerrington turned around to look at the piece behind him again.

"What? No, I've been here far longer than that. You must have just missed me on your prior visit, or it was simply my day off."

"That may be true," Kerrington said. "However..."

He spun around, pulling a handgun from under his jacket and pointing it at Firefingers. In the same moment, Kerrington's bodyguard drew his own weapon and pointed it at Neal.

"You may drop the front now, Firefingers," he said.

Firefingers glanced at Neal. Downstairs, Peter gave the hand signal to move out, but not interfere just yet.

Upstairs, there was an awkward pause.

"Okay, you recognize me, good for you," Firefingers said. "I suppose asking nicely for you to put the gun down is out of the question?"

Kerrington smirked.

"Yes, my good fellow, it is."

He looked at Neal, who had backed against the glass doors. On the other side, FBI agents were hidden just out of sight, Michelle having been safely escorted from the building. Peter peered over the shoulders of a pair, trying to see inside.

"So who is your young friend here? He looks somewhat familiar to me... perhaps I've seen him in your company before?"

"Perhaps, Nikolai. What do you want?"

"Me? I am desperately curious as to why you're working with the FBI agents who are currently surrounding this room."

"I'd play stupid but you'd call me on it. I'll tell you the truth – I have an incurable curiosity about people. I've been keeping tabs on certain members of the FBI, but I am endlessly curious about their side of the story."

"That is fascinating information, Tory," Kerrington said, cocking his pistol.

"Did you really come here to play Twenty Questions with me?"

"I actually came here to stall you."

He glanced towards the separate room where The Triangular Hour was kept. Neal followed his gaze.

The painting was gone.

"And with that, gentlemen, I bid you good day," he said.

"Peter, help!" Neal shouted.

Kerrington fired. Firefingers dropped to the ground. Neal, much smaller and faster than the big bodyguard, ducked behind him and pushed. The large man fell. Leona dropped to the ground as well, screaming with her hands over her head. Firefingers somersaulted across the room and kicked Kerrington's legs out from under him. Neal was wresting the gun away from the bodyguard as Peter and the FBI agents ran in.

"Through the vault!" he shouted at the agents, who rushed into the room. He pointed his own weapon at Kerrington, who was underneath Firefingers, who had the other man's arm twisted backwards, gun pointed at the back of his own head. A pair of agents relieved Neal of the bodyguard, and Peter disarmed Kerrington.

"Who stole that painting?" Peter shouted in Kerrington's face.

Kerrington only smirked.

"I have the incredible ability to be in two places at once," he said smugly.

Firefingers and Peter exchanged glances.

"Hold on... you guys failed a sting operation with Neal before, right?"

Peter nodded.

"He should have recognized Neal... and you thought his name was Nicholas. Nicholas... Nikolai... he's not who you're after! Neal! Let's go!"

Firefingers was up and off Nikolai Kerrington in an instant, Neal hot on his heels. Peter made sure that Nikolai was safely in the hands of another agent before sprinting after them. The agents before them had already found the rear exit through the second vault and were running at a full sprint. Neal, Firefingers, and Peter skidded to a halt as they exited onto the New York Streets.

Nicholas Kerrington was long gone. Peter seized his radio.

"Did anyone see where he went?" he shouted. "Which way did he go?"

The radio crackled back. "Peter, it's Jones. He jumped into a car and went north. NYPD is pursuing, but I don't think he's in there."

Peter put his hands on his hips and paced the sidewalk.

"How come you didn't mention Nicholas and Nikolai Kerrington before?" he said to Firefingers.

"I didn't know. But obviously they've been using that fact against all of us."

"You didn't think about this beforehand?"

"No, I was a little wrapped up in the fact that I even volunteered to help the FBI," Firefingers said, his voice dangerously low.

"Guys," Neal interjected, holding his hands up to both of them. "You're forgetting that, once again, we have a consolation prize."

He pointed to the gallery.

"Nikolai Kerrington is half the package. If we persuade him right, he could work to our advantage."

Both men stared at him. Firefingers glanced at Peter.

"That's where you come in, isn't it, Agent Burke?" he said.

**A/N: The plot thickens! Sorta. More fun stuff to come. Also I tried a different approach – usually I handwrite the chapters then type them up and make minor edits as I go along. This time I just typed it. Do you think it makes a difference? Half of this chapter was written shortly after I gave blood so it maaaaay be a little strange. It made me kinda loopy – I had to look at my watch for five minutes before I was able to comprehend the date.**

**Reviews make me a happy clam. :D**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Would you believe I lost my plans for this? xD I had them written down on a piece of paper and now I can't find that paper. So I've been trying to figure out what to do next. My organizational skills aren't usually this bad.**

**Also, many thanks to Enfleurage for pointing out an embarrassingly bad lapse on my part. It wasn't a huge detail but it did create a rather large plot hole. I went back and added a couple tiny bits to hopefully close it up, although it would've been a lot better if I hadn't missed it in the first place. xD I'm not nearly as smart as the writers on the show, so please forgive my stupidity for showing. ^_^**

**Review please! Even if you have something negative to say, I really appreciate your comments, and I'll do my best to improve, but I can't improve if I don't know what to improve on.**

Chapter 9: Double Trouble

Firefingers, Neal, and Peter sat in Peter's office, both doors closed and nobody speaking. Peter had his face in his hands, and Neal and Firefingers were occasionally exchanging awkward glances. Nikolai was in the conference room, under guard and waiting for Peter to interrogate him.

"This is not good," said Peter at long last. "We totally blew any cover that we had. Nicholas Kerrington is going to be expecting us now."

He looked at Firefingers.

"How long until he realizes that was a forgery?"

"If he does at all, I'll be impressed," Firefingers replied, glaring at Peter. "My work is unparalleled."

"You've got a pretty big ego for someone who was recognized by their voice," Peter snapped.

"And you've got a lot of lip for someone who probably just sent this whole operation to hell."

Neal sighed.

"Is this getting us anywhere?" he asked, fed up. The two older men had been at each other's throats since they had brought Nikolai to the office. Neal was starting to understand how Peter felt – it was like having to be a parent of unruly children.

"Not particularly, but neither is the suit," said Firefingers, not taking his eyes off Peter.

"Look, we have to look at what we have," Neal said, his patience finally running out as he cut off a response from the FBI agent. "Okay, we can't try that again. Nicholas is going to be ready for it. We have to find a new approach. We can start by looking at Nikolai. Obviously they're working together and Salazar was just a distraction. Arresting Salazar was what got them suspicious, which is why they were expecting a trap. Now they know we're actively pursuing them. Fortunately we've crippled Nicholas's allies – Nikolai is in our custody, and whatever they were getting out of Salazar is long gone. Nicholas is likely alone or very close to it, and one is a lot easier to take down than many."

"So you think we should focus on Nikolai?" Peter asked. Neal nodded.

"It won't be easy – they're brothers and there's bound to be a lot of loyalty there. It won't be easy to get Nikolai to flip on Nicholas, and there's no way we can be discreet about this investigation anymore."

Firefingers was still glaring at Peter.

"Oh, maybe you could put that lip of yours to good use," he said sarcastically. Neal shot him a glare of his own.

"Tory, if you don't want to be part of this anymore, there's the door," he said, gesturing. "You can do this on your own if you want."

There was a tense moment of silence. Firefingers stood up, unclipped the visitor badge from his jacket, threw it on Peter's desk, and left without a word.

Neal watched him leave, dumbfounded.

"I... didn't think he'd actually do that," he said.

"Never mind him, Neal," Peter said, secretly relieved to be back to the quota of only one con artist. "If he wants to pursue Nicholas on his own, let him. We need to focus on the task at hand."

Neal stared at the abandoned visitor badge on Peter's desk.

"Now, we need to see if we can find out where Nicholas lives," Peter said. "We have enough probable cause for a search warrant, but Nicholas is probably expecting that tack. We'll have to move fast."

"How are we going to find that information? The files on Nicholas are useless."

"I'll do my thing, you do yours," Peter said with a slight smile.

"You're not that good at being cryptic, you know."

"Shoo."

Neal flashed his smile before standing up to leave the office. Peter opened the door connecting his office to the conference room and stepped inside. He nodded to the guard, who moved to wait outside. Peter sat down, and Nikolai stood up a little straighter, his hand cuffed to the chair. Nikolai was smiling.

"That's a clever little thing you and Nicholas have going on," said Peter. "Two of you makes things a little more difficult on us, but now there's only one."

"Aren't I supposed to have a lawyer with me?" Nikolai said teasingly. Peter ignored him.

"The thing is, Nikolai, that no matter how clever you are, we will eventually catch you. And we did. Now we just need to catch your brother, which will admittedly be a little more complicated."

"Catch him just like you caught Tory Shepherd? Do you know what that man's done in his life?"

"I'm thinking that to matter how faithful you are to Nicholas," Peter said, raising his voice and talking over Nikolai, "you're more faithful to yourself, so I'm willing to offer you a deal. Technically the only charge I have evidence to support is carrying a concealed weapon without a license. I'm willing to drop that charge if you tell us where we can find Nicholas."

Nikolai had stopped smiling.

"Of course, if we find him and we find evidence that incriminates you on other charges, I won't be able to drop those," Peter continued. "But I will remember your help and I will fight to get you a reduced sentence. But that's only if you help me, and only if we find something. So I can understand hesitation, but just know that I'm not out to get you. I'm out to get Nicholas."

Nikolai remained silent. Peter sat back in his chair and watched him carefully.

"I can give you tonight to think it over, but after that, I'm out of time," he said. "Would you rather tell me now or later?"

"Later," Nikolai said instantly. Peter smiled. He had been expecting that response.

"Okay, but if Nicholas gets away because you stalled, the deal's off. Got it?"

Peter gestured at the guard waiting outside.

"We're through here. He's got a little thinking to do. I want him back up here first thing tomorrow morning."

Peter got up and left the room. Waiting was not an idea he was fond of – even one night was risky. He didn't know how fast Nicholas could move.

He sincerely hoped that Neal was having better luck.

xxx

There wasn't much Neal could do other than putter around his suite while waiting for Mozzie to return.

Ignoring the shorter man's protests, Neal had persuaded him to visit Club Firefingers and see if he could get a word in with the owner. It took an almost heroic effort on Neal's part -- Mozzie had long been immune to his charms -- but he managed to do it, and now he was anxiously waiting for word from either Mozzie or Firefingers.

The knock on the door sent a shock through Neal, who had taken to doodling on a piece of paper at the kitchen table. He sprang out of his seat as if it had been electrocuted and hurriedly opened the door.

"Moz, how'd it go?" he said, stepping aside to let Mozzie in.

"I went to the club and looked for the bartender, who said he was given express orders not to take any calling cards tonight," he said. Neal felt and looked like he had just been smacked in the face. "He knew you were coming, _amigo._ I don't think he wants anything to do with this anymore."

"He definitely isn't giving up that easily," Neal said immediately. "He's more tenacious than I am. Remember that time he drove you crazy about getting that blue diamond bracelet?"

"Which ended up being a huge waste of my time because someone else got to it first?"

"And then he tracked the guy down and stole it from him to teach you a lesson about being on the ball? Moz, that's how he taught us to stay unpredictable. He found the guy because he'd done the same thing before."

"Okay, fine, he's not done with this yet, but he's definitely done with working with the FBI and, by association, you."

Neal looked away and ran a hand through his hair. Mozzie surveyed him.

"He's still a step behind you, man," he said. "He would never let you out of his sight for too long. It's just... you're working for the other side now, and Firefingers doesn't function that way."

There was a brief silence.

"Thanks Moz. For trying."

"It's the least I could do."

"Find anything on Nicholas Kerrington?"

"Not a whole lot, but I do know he definitely lives somewhere in Manhattan. The general word is that he can be in two places at once, which seems to solidify the argument that he and Nikolai would simply go by the same name. Nikolai, after all, is the Russian form of Nicholas."

"Then how did Tory know him as Nikolai?"

Mozzie shrugged. "Maybe Nikolai thought it wouldn't matter with him. Or maybe they switch between the two. I dunno. All I know is that they work together, and Nicholas seems to live somewhere by the Brooklyn Bridge -- I can't get a specific address but he's definitely somewhere within a few miles of the bridge. Your FBI friends can patrol the area, can't they?"

Neal nodded.

"Thanks Moz. I'll talk to Peter and see what he can do."

"It's what I live for, Neal," Moz said, sitting down at the kitchen table. "How about a game of chess?"

xxx

Peter walked in the front door of his house, greeted by his three favorite things -- the smell of food, Satchmo, and the smiling face of his wife. He deeply inhaled the first one, patted the second on the head, and hugged and kissed the third.

"Hey honey, how was your day?" Elizabeth asked.

"One of those ones that I'd rather forget," he replied. "How was yours?"

"Pretty good, although I was yelled at by an angry bride-to-be whose sister apparently is allergic to half the food the caterer that _she_ booked herself uses. That was a definite downside."

"Some people," Peter agreed, throwing his briefcase and coat onto the couch. He took another deep breath. "Smells great in here."

Elizabeth smiled. "Dinner's almost ready, if you'd be so kind as to set the table."

He obediently followed her into the kitchen, getting some plates out of the cabinet and arranging them appropriately on the table. Elizabeth stirred the pan, and Peter was pleased to see seasoned chicken mixed with some vegetables. Another pot with mashed potatoes in it was sitting next to the oven, already cooked.

"How'd everything go today?" Elizabeth asked as Peter collected silverware.

"Mostly wrong but a little bit right," he said, recounting the day's events as he bustled in and out of the kitchen, Elizabeth listening intently as she finished cooking and started distributing food onto each plate.

"Hopefully Neal'll come through for you, huh?" she said.

"He called me just before I left the office to tell me he thinks Nicholas Kerrington lives somewhere near the Brooklyn Bridge. He didn't have specifics, but I did set up a patrol in the area to see if we can find the guy."

The two sat down at the table, Peter pouring drinks for the both of them.

"If we don't catch him tonight, we might as well kiss him goodbye," said Peter. "I'm betting he's loading everything up and making for the border right this minute."

Elizabeth took her husband's hand.

"You'll get him," she said firmly. "I have faith in you."

Peter smiled. Elizabeth was a great supporter, even if it was just a few simple words over dinner.

The rest of the meal passed with idle chit-chat, Peter listening intently as Elizabeth recounted the engagement party gone wrong. He did his best to be supportive of her, too, although both of them knew that his job was infinitely more stressful than hers.

After they had both finished eating, Peter took their plates into the kitchen and started rinsing them off. He heard a knock on the door.

"I got it," Elizabeth called. Peter didn't wonder who it was -- at this time of night, it was probably someone from the FBI, most likely one of the poor agents assigned to patrolling the area Nicholas was suspected of living in.

He heard Elizabeth open the door.

"Can I help you?" she said.

"I'm looking for Peter Burke."

Peter almost dropped the plate he was cleaning. Nikolai was right -- Firefingers's voice was very distinctive.

He shut the water off, dried his hands as fast as he could, and walked into the living room.

"What do you want, Tory?" he asked.

"To talk to you," he said innocently. "I told you I would help, so I'm helping."

"You walked out on us earlier."

"I can only take concentrated eau de cops for so long. May I come in?"

Elizabeth glanced at Peter, confused.

"El, this is Tory Shepherd, the guy I was telling you about who helped us -- somewhat -- with the investigation so far. This is my wife, Elizabeth."

"Delightful to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Burke," Firefingers said, bowing slightly to Elizabeth. He held out a hand and she smiled, shaking it. Peter stared.

Elizabeth stepped aside and Firefingers entered. He turned his attention to Peter.

"Saw your boys buzzing around a certain area earlier on. Did a little poking around of my own and I found something you might be interested in."

He reached into his jacket and took out a piece of folded paper.

"This was something I _accidentally_ was handed by the movers outside of Nicholas's soon-to-be former residence."

"You knew where he lived and didn't tell us?"

"I didn't know, but the movers who are packing his stuff away definitely knew."

Firefingers unfolded the paper and handed it to Peter, who scanned it quickly.

"It's a summary of their instructions. They're moving him to that address, must be done by nine o'clock tomorrow morning."

"How did you get this?"

"Surprisingly, moving guys aren't that smart. I told them I was interested in how far they're willing to move stuff and they were all aflutter about informing me about such things -- this address is in New Jersey. For some reason they equated state lines with distance, even though I could've thrown a rock at Hoboken."

"It was legally obtained, that's all I care about. Nine o'clock tomorrow morning we'll be at this address to take down Nicholas Kerrington."

Peter could barely contain his excitement. Elizabeth smiled and kissed him.

"Great news, honey," she said.

"Thank you, Tory," Peter said. Firefingers smirked.

"Maybe now I can get back more than this," he said, pulling back his sleeve to show off a petite bracelet studded with blue diamonds.

**A/N: Gasp! We're getting close to the end of this story! This is exciting. Right?**

**Reviews please! The more reviews the faster I'll get you to the end! Even if you just have a few words to say, it means a lot! Thanks for reading!**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Ohai there. =| Life decided it was going to sucker punch me in the face so this is REALLY late. xD I am so sorry. Thank you for sticking with me!**

Chapter 10: Preparations

"I want as much coverage as we can get," Peter said to his phone as he paced his living room. "Vans on the ground, snipers in the surrounding buildings, air coverage if we can manage it. Anything available needs to be there by nine o'clock tomorrow morning."

While he spoke, Elizabeth exited the kitchen carrying two cups of hot chocolate. She gave one to Firefingers, who was sitting at the dining table, and sat down to his left. Firefingers accepted the cup with a smile.

"Thank you, my dear," he said charmingly.

"Not a problem," Elizabeth replied.

They both turned in their chairs to watch Peter, who was still pacing as he chattered into the phone.

"He takes this job seriously, doesn't he?" Firefingers asked, carefully sipping the hot chocolate. Elizabeth nodded.

"That he does. Sometimes a little too seriously. I don't think he'd know how to function in any other job."

"I can relate to that," Firefingeres conceded. Peter wrapped up his phone conversation and hung up, flushed with excitement. "I owe you one, Tory. You've been a huge help."

"Anything to keep you off my trail."

Peter opened his mouth to say something but promptly closed it again. Elizabeth winked knowingly at him.

"Is that why someone like you agreed to help?" she asked innocently. "I'd think you'd have yourself covered enough to not have to worry."

"Keep your friends close and your enemies closer," Firefingers said with a wink. "Besides, it's been good to catch up with Neal."

Peter put his hands on his hips.

"Yeah, well, this time, I'm in your debt. Thank you, Tory."

"Are you not so subtly trying to kick me out?" Firefingers said in a deadpan. Peter, standing behind him, looked instantly guilty. "I hope you don't think I plan to leave you at this. I intend to see it through to the end. By your leave, Agent Burke, I would like to be in attendance tomorrow morning."

Elizabeth cocked her head at Peter, who had little choice in the matter.

"Fine," Peter said.

"Excellent." Firefingers turned in his chair to face Peter. "Additionally, also by your leave, I am currently in transition and have no place to stay tonight. Would you be kind enough to lend me your couch for the night?"

"Of course we will," Elizabeth said before Peter had a chance to say anything to the contrary. Peter gave her an alarmed look.

"Your beauty is surpassed only by your kindness, Madame Burke," Firefingers said. Peter thought fleetingly that at least Neal wasn't as irritatingly archaic. Elizabeth smiled, relishing the praise.

"El, can I talk to you in the kitchen?" Peter said. Firefingers smiled, wide and amused. Elizabeth excused herself politely and led the way into the adjacent room. She spoke first after the door closed.

"He's harmless, Peter," she said. "He hasn't done anything to you thus far, and I don't see why he'd start now."

Peter's mouth hung uselessly open, his hands still on his hips.

"Besides, can't you see he's scoping you out?" she continued. "He's observing you, my guess is because he wants to know if he can trust you. Let him stay just one night, to show him that you mean business."

Peter couldn't argue her. "Fine," he said. "But I'm putting away all the valuables."

They walked back out into the other room. Firefingers was still seated at the table, petting Satchmo. He looked up.

"One night, Shepherd," Peter said. "Then you get your own place."

"Trust me, Agent Burke, I have little interest in plaguing you longer than necessary."

Elizabeth made her way over to the stairs. "I'll get you some blankets," she called as she disappeared. In her absence, Peter and Firefingers locked eyes.

"Why do you want to stay here?" Peter asked.

"You should know by now that I don't give straight answers," the other man replied, taking a sip from his hot chocolate.

The next morning was a flurry of activity before dawn even broke. Peter was up early, careful not to disturb Elizabeth as he got out of bed. Downstairs, Firefingers was sprawled on the couch, dead to the world. Peter went into the kitchen and set some coffee on the brew before returning upstairs to get dressed. He was tired but nerves were electrifying him into a state of hyperalert consciousness. Even after all of these years in the FBI, getting close to his mark was still a source of excitement.

He straightened his tie as he descended the stairs again. It had been less than ten minutes but Firefingers was sitting bolt upright, alert and showing no signs of having been unconscious moments before.

"Good morning, Agent Burke," he said in a quiet tone. "Is that coffee I smell?"

Peter nodded and went to the kitchen, filling two cups with coffee.

"Want any milk or anything?" Peter asked politely as he added some to his own cup.

"Black is fine, thank you," Firefingers said. "What are our plans this morning?"

"We're playing it by ear. We have no idea what's going to happen, but we're preparing with the worst in mind. Things might get hairy. Can you handle a gun?"

Firefingers made a face.

"Yes, but it's not exactly a hobby of mine."

"You really did teach Neal," Peter grumbled, putting on his jacket. "Come on. We're leaving. Let me say goodbye to my wife and we'll be off."

Firefingers waited patiently while Peter made a third trip up and down the stairs. In the car, a somewhat uncomfortable silence settled in the front seats. The drive was a little lengthy, especially in New York traffic. Peter drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

"So you and Neal used to be close, huh?" Peter asked awkwardly. "And no, I don't expect a straight answer."

"We were once closer than you could imagine. He used to follow me around like a puppy. I don't think he's ever fully lost that quality."

Peter, surprised by Firefingers's candid response, made a snap decision to pursue the straight responses while they lasted.

"So why did you two go your separate ways?"

"You don't have kids, do you?"

Peter shook his head.

"Neither do I, but Neal was something of a surrogate. I taught him until he couldn't learn from me anymore, and so he left the nest. Doesn't mean I stopped watching him."

"I'm guessing, then, that you knew me before Neal introduced us."

"I knew of you, just never bothered to find out the details. I had that information on hand, however, in case you ever decided to chase after me."

"Why is Neal so significant? Why him, out of all the people you could've taught? Why teach at all?"

"That, Agent Burke, is where I cease to give honest answers."

They fell silent again, Firefingers staring out the window.

"Answer me this, Agent Burke," he said. "Is Neal significant to you?"

Unsure of where this line of questioning was going, Peter gave a guarded, "Yes."

"How significant?"

"He… uh, he matters, if that's what you mean. I care about him. He's useful and… he's a good friend."

Firefingers smiled.

"That's all I wanted to know, Agent Burke."

The rest of the drive was completed in silence.

The street where Nicholas Kerrington was moving to looked, for all intents and purposes, perfectly normal. But Peter could easily pick out the assorted FBI agents and vehicles surrounding the place, hidden amongst the typical scenery.

He parked a few streets away and he and Firefingers began walking down an alley back to their mark to avoid being seen.

"Jones volunteered to pick up Neal," Peter explained. "I wanted to be here early and figured Neal didn't. I wasn't expecting to have you tagging along."

"I relish my own unpredictability."

"Yeah. Congratulations."

They stopped near one of the surveillance vans. Peter double checked that no one was watching, then knocked.

"It's Burke and Shepherd," he said.

The door opened.

"Shepherd? I thought you ditched us," Lauren said as she helped the two men climb into the van.

"Only temporarily, my dear," he said, smiling. Peter rolled his eyes and sat down at one of the surveillance stations.

"Okay. We've got about two hours or so until Kerrington gets here. Is everything in place?"

"Everything in plain sight is," said Lauren. "We figured getting off the streets was more important than anything else."

Peter nodded. "Good. Has there been any activity in the house?"

"Nothing other than neighbours walking dogs out front. We followed them just to be cautious."

"One way or another I want the neighbours to know to stay inside," Peter said. "I don't want any innocents getting caught up if this turns ugly."

"How should I do that?"

"Have someone pose as a door-to-door salesman," Firefingers suggested. "But instead of handing out pamphlets, give them a note explaining the situation. I'd do it myself but my cover is long gone."

He glanced pointedly at Peter, who chose to ignore the jab.

"That's a good idea. Lauren, you--"

"On it," she said, putting on her jacket and leaving the truck. Firefingers closed the door behind her. He sat down at the second surveillance station.

"Never thought I'd be sitting inside one of these," he said, leaning in to look closely at the equipment. Peter glanced at him.

"Don't touch anything."

"Didn't plan to. I can get enough through observation. I admit, though, this is fascinating. It's like being god. It's a nice change from being watched to doing the watching."

"Yeah, well, don't get used to it. This is probably a one-time thing for you. Hughes is uncomfortable having Neal around, and we have power over him. You're your own man."

"And I always will be, Agent Burke."

"Not if I find something on you," Peter said, smiling slightly. Firefingers caught the humour and was dignified enough to appreciate it. He returned the smile.

"I doubt you can. It would be fun to watch you try, though."

"I watched you forge a painting."

"Enjoy explaining why you're the one who asked me to do it."

"Touché."

Friendly banter was a new side of Firefingers to Peter. He sensed that the other man still had a disdain for him, but it wasn't as powerful as it had been. Maybe Neal was right – Firefingers did respect him.

Waiting was largely uneventful for Firefingers, and was marginally less boring for Peter, who at least had to occasionally coordinate some part of the operation. The con artist dozed while Peter worked, a set-up that wasn't unfamiliar to the agent.

A knock on the van doors jerked Firefingers out of his sleep. Peter reached over his head and opened the door.

"Ah, Jones and Neal," he said as they climbed in. "Just in time."

Neal immediately noticed Firefingers, who nodded his head in acknowledgement.

"Tory," he said, surprise evident in his voice. "You're here."

"Wouldn't miss the show for the world."

"I was wondering how we found the place so quickly."

Firefingers smiled.

"Power of persuasion, my boy."

"Right. Jones, thanks for picking him up," Peter said. "You know where you need to be, right?"

Jones nodded and hopped out of the van. Neal closed the doors behind him. Peter waited a moment or two, then picked up his radio.

"Alright, everyone, T minus ten minutes. Everything in position?"

A crackle of affirmative answers came through. Firefingers sat up intently. Peter pressed the button again.

"Good. At my signal, everyone move out. Do not move until I give the signal."

Another crackle of positive responses, and Peter put down his radio. He took one of his pistols out of its holster and double checked that it was ready and loaded. He looked at the two other men.

"Either take a weapon or stay inside this van," he said. Firefingers and Neal exchanged glances.

"Is there a C, none of the above?" Firefingers said. Peter shook his head, and Firefingers sighed. He held out his hand.

"Fine."

Peter handed him a second pistol, which he looked at with disdain. Neal, on the other hand, didn't seem to be as willing.

"I'll just stick by you, Peter," he said. "I'm not a gun guy."

Firefingers, before Peter could respond, stood up and thwacked Neal on the back of his head.

"Pay attention, boy," he said. "Either in the van or with a gun. There isn't a third option. I wasn't asking to be cute."

Peter gave Neal an amused look, biting back his smile. He picked up a third pistol and handed it to Neal, who accepted it with reluctance. Firefingers glared at him.

"Always listen," he said. "Always listen."

He sat back down. Peter shrugged at Neal and turned his attention to the monitors.

"There's a car," he said, leaning down intently. Both Firefingers and Neal crowded in to see. "They're getting out… Kerrington's not with them? No, wait, there. In the middle."

"I'll be damned, the bastard brought muscle," Firefingers said as Peter picked up his radio.

"Everyone at the ready, hold position. Target sighted," he said. The three men watched as Kerrington and four other men climbed out of the car. Two of the men flanked Kerrington while the other two went inside, presumably to make sure the coast was clear. Kerrington leaned against the car while one of his guards took a few steps away to light up a cigarette.

"No better time than now, Agent Burke," Firefingers said.

Peter picked up his radio.

"Go!"

**A/N: Cliffhanger. You're welcome. ;D Hopefully it won't take me so long on the next part. Thank you for your support! Please review! ^_^**


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